And this was written by my friend:
enough to create a new world,
without fear hate or deceit..
where fathers do not die,
with bullets in their head and dreams in their eyes.
A new world,
where an eternal spring,
blossoms in unending green,
where rivers flow filled with elexar
and winds bring changes of prosperity.
A new world
where my friend you and me,
sit together and share a laugh
watching rainbows which span the mountain.
The same atmosphere
brightened with gloss of brilliance,
which maria can bring
she searched her soul
found it thousand times
she hit the same atmosphere
same people cupping their chins
with their awful hands
Maria knows no sacrifice
she is programed
and following her selfish genes
implanted on her breathe
yeah things cant be destroyed
you have to make them to ashes
and wash it away
indeed it is the way
Maria knows exactly
what is she upto
not a hand not a word
of sympathy she needs
she is enough
A mysterious misfortune;
Maybe be a myriad mirage.
She searches her slain sire;
Sublimed into supernatural…
Subconsciously simulating stormy scourge.
Blood boils, brews bigotry;
Bounces brains beyond bizarre.
Leave no latitude for logic.
Lives are lost; leaving lesions.
She should sit and search her soul;
Sober out and see,
Sacrifice her sire made,
For her and her unborn children,
Who will till these forgotten fields….
Sow peace and reap a golden harvest,
And remember their grandfather…
He will live in them forever.
“Matter can neither be created nor can be destroyed.”
Even the witches in Macbeth
Will not be able to trace a bird
That flew over Maria’s head.
Neither can they tell the fortune
Nor they are informed about hands of death
They have to seek for shelter from the storm
Maria’s swollen eyes gonna get burst in blood
It gonna paint the town in red
The real prey is now praying to the sun
Not for another night
Which took away Maria’s daddy
Where the wind blew away
And fitted a bullet in his head
The sky will be torn apart
The clouds will get darkened than ever
Maria is reaching them
Marching on the same roads they used to
Maria has forgotten the friendly fields
Where she walked upon the cotton like soil
Now all that she remembers
is the soil that buried his father and her dreams
By my friend :
swollen with rage,shock or guilt,
I do not know..
The mist in them clouded the crystals they used to be.
The fields lie barren,
her father used to till them..
Orphaned like her on the alter of hatred.
But who will sing songs of sacrifice
her father made for me...
or her maybe.
She searches for a sunrise,
which sleeps inside her,
potent enough to change the way rainbows used to be.
and I have a deep resolve;
To spread the warmth abound.
on the fluorescence of rice saplings,
on those friendly fields
Maria a name of my poetry came out in real and made me sleepless many nights.
Never a character in my poems so far existed in mind. Perhaps it is the first character i have and it will remain forever haunting me and hovering in my poetry land.
She was a synonym to revolution, a revolution next to impossible. Being a girl left her with no chances to fight back against the people who took her daddy’s life.
She was lost in her thoughts of getting her grip on the neck of her enemies...........
I am lost too..... Maria, just like you
Maria's daddy could be you
Who hated his empty stomach
Whose eyes were fixed to the rainbows
That never set its shadow on earth
Just for the respect they got
They neither protected him from bullets
Nor from the sunny days and rain of summers
Maria a name of a song
You could hum on any journey
Like any newspaper wrapped sweets
It was sweet to look at and lovely to hear
But the red eyes you and i never felt
Cos it burns
We do not wanna get burnt
Her daddy got burnt
He was not confused
Yes he hated everyone
Except the blade of the plough he used
That too cut him into pieces at the end
There is no red revolution left
Everything seems wild and out of hand
Maria has gone wild too
She is longing for another dawn
To steer the day in her ways...
Her mother and siblings were not mentioned in the Poem so far.
A friend whom I came across through Orkut wrote to me a poem in reply to Maria:
By the bridge on Imphal river.
Under the open autumn sky.
She had thousand questions in her eyes
and I had answers to none...
Who perhaps killed her father?
He was a nice man,
I knew him well...
And we often used to sit together
Trying to understand each other...
I do not know how much he understood me,
But sure I was..
He was like me
a human with a heart...
He was killed,
Stuck between distrust and hatred;
Of men in olive green
Men with red rhetoric
But what I should tell Maria,
Was it me or her
Who bore the burden of her death…?
I was his Faith in olive green
His hope in red revolution.
Maria was young and fine
News in the radio
Breaking silence of shadows
Maria’s daddy was shot
Nobody knew what he had shot at
Maria ran out on the streets
Streets to the death and shits
She found bullets in his head
And a sonnet in his pocket
She dug the soil of his garden
Buried him with a garland
Turned her head to the captain
Said, “Thought you been kind.”
Maria ran away with her red eyes
Looking at the setting sun and the sky
Flowers shattering into petals and stamens
Wind humming what tomorrow might bring
Maria has become a bed story
But there is yet, to come, a glory
Woke up sweating with insanity
The old ceiling fan crying tirelessly
With its dust sprinkling all over the room
Sleeping bare-naked on the floor
Scratches all over my body
Turned the light on
Checked whether I was bleeding
The clock struck 4 ‘o clock
The empty bottle of coke
Rolling back and forth
In the mournful rhythm of the fan
Lit a cigarette
Opened the door to the dawning sky
I inhaled the smoke
With a deep breathe
The fire glowed like a firefly
The twinkling fading stars
Beneath Dylan’s diamond sky
The tall buildings aiming at the sky
The next-door old man with his Tiffin
Leaving to earn for his daughters’ wedding
Summer at dawn has its own beauty
Inside every room there is humidity
The cigarette burnt out soon
The fire seemed to lit the sun
Soon it rise
Clearing the sky
My dawn was over restlessly
And a beginning of poetry
I sat down with a pencil and note pad
Facing my messy kitchen
The pressure cooker often distracted me
The empty sack of rice made me worried
Soon a cat caught my attention
And she took away my poetry
Poetry to me
Is as instantaneous as bullets
I cannot follow Mayakovsky
I do not aim to make it a sonnet
How can I write about Chile?
I am not Neruda or any Poet
And not about black Americans
I am not Baldwin or Toni Morrison
I see limited things
As my space and time is too
They do not see things that I see
There are many like me who are voiceless
How I started and how I ended
It seems there is no flow
But it is a mirror
And in mirror you do not see
Any discontinuous image
Look at my dawning sky
And look at my mirror image
You think there are broken paths?
You think I am trying hard to be a poet
No, I am not
It is just a celebration of little me..
My lost-track trekker
Will not last long
You started it
With a saddle on a pony
And you left it
Wounded upon the field of paddy.
Your redness fades
Towards nonsensical usual fun
Of attracting attention
Of people to your sons.
So many boys and girls
On the same road
Over a mouthful of rice
So many ladies are fish netting
Worrying with the sun’s setting
In your non-appearance
If you come asking
The number of meals
You will take away those fish
Which forget to breathe without water
Like water is to fish
Money is to your revolution.
Forget the revolution
Still you have not brought a change
Except your black boots and belts
So many men succumb
Waiting for a change in this world
Never realise there is in between a wall
Greater than “Great wall of China.”
And a comrade like you towered it
Against the clear sky of promises.
Your sons are foolish
All they know is only two things smoke
The guns and the fast cars.
They drop the horses dead on road
They left the enemies’ radio turned on
Unknowingly they sang along
From the basements they honk
How do they get out of your cage?
A cage next to freedom and liberty
As you promised.
They will soon drown
In their own blood, inside the ladies’ gown.
Thought you would show
There can be a way
Not to the gutters
Not to the mountains
But on a plain
Not upon the painted chairs
Not underneath the earth
But beneath our different faces and skin
Winter nights are warm for you
Because you sleep on the ashes
A left over heat of your tamed anger
How shall I categorize your act?
So many outfits or idiots like you
Rule my moves and heartbeats
I collect every teardrop and sweat
You take it way and say
You are wiping it
Not the tears I want you to wipe
But stand by me when I sweat
I sleep less
Since the day I smelt the burning
Thought I would be numb
But no, eventually got burnt
Wish I could scratch their eyeballs out
Wish people really burnt them
On the streets
Where the Dogs are guarding them
You soon look back
Where you left the beginning
Or we will come to the end…
Across the eyes
Not a hand to wipe
The tears off.
On the knees,
Walking towards a window
A light from a window
Beaming on the eyes
A subject of a depressed artist
It could be
But the heart beats
He cannot paint
With his brushes
He cannot make it
So red like blood
With his knives
Sorrows and painful
Memories of the days
Than every funeral
I did not want to exist that moment
As I felt pointless to tell the truth
And there was nothing that you would think
Is reasonable to cry out
I was broke since I became
Part of this rich cultured world
I was so torn like a bamboo basket
That had been soaked and forgotten
And still I am.
I wanted not to be me
I looked around for a change
But the mirrors reflected only me
I crashed the mirrors
And got inside it
And I ended up inside a saloon
With a barber with the longest hair
I asked him how could I change?
He thought with the scissor picking his teeth.
A smile brightened his face
He said, “That is why I exist.
I like people like you
Who comes to me with better meaning of me
Not just to cut their hair to bear the sunny days.
And I wanted to be different
That is why I have this long hair.”
So he shaved my head.
And the lady to whom I lost myself
Did not like my shaved head
Or she hated me sweating
And I was sweating
But I was calm and quiet
Like it was a winter night
“Anyway” was what her eyes meant
She held my hand took me to her stairs
Where she faces the windy side of the city
I felt for the first time I was not in the city
She was making some soup
While I was watching the children flying kite
I saw the freedom,
The kites have felt
Strolling and winging
In the never ending sky,
In their eyes
Even if they came out from a 10 square feet room
My lady offered me the soup
With a steel spoon
Which once we bought
From the famous Darya Ganj Sunday Market,
Not to be mistaken
It is not the place where western influenced people go
To look for Levi’s pair of jeans
Or anything-branded clothes,
It is the market where books are sold
In the cheapest price they could be
It is where from I bought “Cinnamon Peeler.”
As I looked deeper and deeper
In the sky facing the wind
I was again reasoning for my existence
But she stopped me
And asked me “Can you fly Kite?”
I said no and had a sip of soup
She asked, ”How come?
Hadn’t you even tried once?”
I said no
I don’t want to feel unrealistic freedom
That the kites feel at the highest altitude
That too control by a soft thread,
May that was the reason unknowingly
I had never tried it……