Month: June 2022

The Chinese Master sipping tea
Invaded my territory
With well-positioned weiqi stones.

I told him I didn’t know the science
Of wobbly stones on criss-cross lines.
He only answered, “Empty moans.”

I clicked my Climbing Silver down
To see the Master’s muddled frown.
I smirked and said, “My head, my game.”

He put a hand into this beard
And pulled the only piece I feared.
“A pawn’s enough to bring you shame.”

I bludgeoned him with Ace of Clubs.
He scrabbled for some Bingo rubs.
My mother called, “Get up, get up.”

The thermometer in my mouth
Confirmed the fever sailing south.
I nodded at the Oolong cup.

I try to fill a nil with art.
To write instead from brimming heart
Is still the skill I need to drill.

Rejecting Life for what it is,
Reacting to all ease, unease,
Is still the thrill I need to kill.

I have, instead, a scream so shrill
That sharpening my poet’s quill
Is still the pill I need to chill.

The papers of the poet prince
Survived despite the palace fire
That crisped and burned his ancestry
So ornate on the tapestry
That spanned the wall behind the throne.

The papers of the poet prince
Survived despite the hungry goats
Unleashed into the library
By hired ninjas sent to end
The living and their history.

The papers of the poet prince
Survived despite the rushing blood
From jabs and slashes on his skin
That soaked his purple sokutai
But not the leather pouch within.

Or maybe someone clever ran
Some propaganda marketing.

I showed the little one a rose,
Which then arose a little smile:
A half-moon toothless pure delight
As flighty as a midnight kite.

Her raven eyes of seven weeks
Then followed the uneven path
Along the branches of the rose:
An avalanche of bugs were close.

So, usually I let them be
The butterflies I love to see.
And yet today I knew I couldn’t.
I fully squished my inner “shouldn’t”.

The horror: itchy silky fur
On milky, velvet baby skin!
Avuncular protectiveness
Effected swift effectiveness.

I took my little angel back,
And stacked my plans for bug attack.
Remembering a previous rhyme,
I let them climb a plate of lime.

I saw them curl and shed their fur
With relish of a predator.

When CIA declassified
A bunch of files on Berhampur —
Oh yes, my little seaside town
Was worth a couple local spies
To CIA’s ongoing watch
Against the rise of communists
In Cuba, China, Russia,
By way of Berhampur-on-sea —
Allegedly, allegedly.

So, yeah, when they declassified
A bunch of files on Berhampur,
I finally, then, understood
Why Russian couples coupled here
And left a little ghetto street,
So full of “Anglo-Indians” —
Allegedly, allegedly —
Who smelled of books and something else
My uncle called “Havana Sweet”.

I finally, then, understood
Why Russian novels sold so cheap
In road-side stalls across the town,
And every man of “cultured taste”
Had shelves and shelves of Russian books
In red or wheatish leatherback.

I finally, then, understood
Why Burmese teak was used to build
These ornate crates for libraries
Of certain naval officers
Who steered their ships on certain days
Away from currents in the sea.

The CIA reports revealed —
Allegedly, allegedly —
Discrepancies in volume, weight
Of shipped-in crates of sugarcane
On cargo ships from Cuban coasts.
Allegedly, allegedly,
Evaporation was the cause,
Along with all the “chipperings”
Of rodents on its dried-up leaves.

The sugarcane unloaded here
And sat with “Anglo-Indians”
Who also owned their own produce
In greenery of Ganjam fields —
The Ganjam fields that got their name,
Allegedly, allegedly,
From yields and yields of Ganja green.

The Burmese ships that brought the books
From mainland China, Russia,
In ornate crates of Burmese teak,
Returned towards the Comrade States
With sugarcane, et cetera,
For comrades sporting thin cigars.
And Cuban ships returned their way
With crates of priceless literature
For farmers signing with their thumbs.

Alas, the Winter of the World
Was soon to freeze Atlantic routes
With missile-loaded submarines.
And Globalising India,
Was soon to freeze Berhampur roots
In greenery of Ganjam fields.

Alas, the little ghetto street
Is left with “Indian fishermen”
Of questionable ancestry —
Allegedly, allegedly —
Who smell of fish and something else
My father calls “Rangooni Gills”.

I’ve found in me a new disease:
A voice that tells me, “Give up, please.
You need to rest, you need a break,
To eat a slice of velvet cake,
To crunch your way through chicken fried.
It’s fine, you know? At least, you tried.”

I roll my eyes, say, “Nicest try!”
It simply smiles and winks a bye,
Until again the ghrelin drips
And shows me sizzling bacon strips.
“A day a week is not so bad.
Remember virtues Stoics had?
So, practice bit of Temperance.
You know what makes a ton of sense?
The middle path the Buddha taught.
A day a week is not a lot.”

I roll again my traitor eyes
And grab a fistful peanut fries.
The extra salt I do not mind.
I pat my tum, “Be kind. Be kind.”

It often happens late at night.
I see myself with lizard sight:
A foetal man with fatal flaws
Engrossed in some subsomnic fight.

I scuttle down the eastern wall
To watch my arches rise and fall
In step with rapid charging drums
Of some subdermal martial call.

I land upon the bed to scan,
Despite the roaring ceiling fan,
The dampness of a bloodied field
In some subthermal shape of man.

And back I go into my head,
To see the lizard flee in dread.
I hear its fear vibrate so clear
On some subsonic brahman thread.

O Infinite within me, please,
Remind me on my days of grief
I live no more to only live.

My life is worthless anyway
Except on days I live to give.
To give whoever I can give
Whatever little I can give.
To live enough another day
To give enough another day.

Remind, when things are tough for me,
That having You’s enough for me.
It may be years before I see
That I am You and You are Me.
Until the day, remind me, please,
I live to give until I cease.

I feel embarrassed to admit
I haven’t got the slightest clue
Of what I want to do beyond
A daily life of crafting lines.

It’s not even my Ikigai.
It’s not something the world will buy.
It’s not something the world will need.
It’s just a thing I want to do.
And maybe I am good at too.

It’s “good” in strictly private sense.
Of all the skills I now possess,
With crafting lines, I feel Success.
It doesn’t mean I’m good enough
To move a reader with my stuff.

I know the lines won’t pay my bills.
I know the lines won’t school my kids.
I know the lines won’t cure disease.
I know the lines won’t bring me peace.

But lines are where I feel so true.
And maybe I am meant for too.
But maybe I have got no clue
Of what to do, what not to do.

I feel embarrassed to admit
I haven’t got the slightest clue
Of what I want to do beyond
A daily life of crafting lines.

It’s not even my Ikigai.
It’s not something the world will buy.
It’s not something the world will need.
It’s just a thing I want to do.
And maybe I am good at too.

It’s “good” in strictly private sense.
Of all the skills I now possess,
With crafting lines, I feel Success.
It doesn’t mean I’m good enough
To move a reader with my stuff.

I know the lines won’t pay my bills.
I know the lines won’t school my kids.
I know the lines won’t cure disease.
I know the lines won’t bring me peace.

But lines are where I feel so true.
And maybe I am meant for too.
But maybe I have got no clue
Of what to do, what not to do.