CULTURE
-
P C K
Prem (India)
I sit alone and mumble
but find it difficult
as words on the lips prance,
for yet to be born fable in the eyes
when brows continue to behold
a fixed point,
and even sounds roughly make sense
while tickling a languid Kundalini
in the hope of resurrecting Gita
for Karma theory is distorted.
There are sin-flushed meanings
around the loneliness of the man,
wanting to peel off armour
when I try to follow edicts,
of pillars engraved eras back.
Detractors and wanton doers hop around
And I turn head swiftly
eyes emit hideous sparks after a second,
and tears roll down to laugh at
contrived sufferings in action,
as I lie flat on bed of roses thorny
with sermons on life dry
for no archer digs a hole for water.
I learn, deaths in the family
outlived a night long inferno
and burnt a home,
of love banished.
A mute god on a poster lives
in a corner,
and he closes eyes in front of it.
Others lived in the adjacent room
masked men played havoc,
woman cried aloud as white robes
counted beads in fervent breathings,
while entangled in legs naked.
A man in statue lost the will to rule
wishes to take care
of a vacant orphanage,
no one safe in this country
he heard but was thrown out,
a burly push of a butt reduced him
to a cataleptic.
He could not cry even
fear of death made a captive,
he knew the struggle,
little cries of tots below
still trying to know life in four walls.
Not knew that men clutch women
an awful exhibit of will, a sign of peril,
all had left after the orgy and kill.
And a tragic story in smiles grows up
before the fleshy fingers,
talk to the computer
about a gory event of loot and murder.
I was quiet and settled down with the man
and words refused to grow wheat,
when tears speak of deep dead
ardour of water
in inner anguish and desolation,
of a flowing river
where words soundless flowed,
and chilled touches of yielding love.
One by one, each vanished
the words elapsed into eerie deadness
echoing shrills for a few seconds,
I kept sitting for no exacting rationale.
I wanted to measure the pains
misery was the last point,
a strange linkage suits I knew
for one does not have add-ons.
As I trembled with a brutal ache
I realized he lived in splinters of voices,
like the chirping of sparrows
and songs of koels moving,
when tie is born in conked similes.
I found he is gone into the darkness
of a forest with long tunnels,
of tribal-hooting
I stood, blew out a word and was pained
to forget children tears.
And a man splits into tiny particles
undoing fastened bonds is rare.
Not easy to erase the face of a woman
a wife, a friend and a caretaker,
self-doubting to live in the world,
minus memoirs.
I tried to comfort the man within
that world was safe in terror,
and quite aggressive and floating,
in spite of continuing violent acts
and sprinkling of human blood.
For it is now a routine
a new culture is born in lull,
absolute.