Tuesday, July 01, 2008

Political Strokes

Singur Saturday

That Saturday,
Creeping through the naked sky
Terror eclipsed sun
Blindly commits suicide.

Blue tongue
Hang on shamefully between
Shameless eunuch jaws.

Morning begins
With Protest Blossoms and
Wordy eruptions.
Morning matures with
Lathis and rifles.
And slangs
-“…suworer bacchha saalaa, aay…”

Mourning morn
Disappears in melancholy
With tears, cries and bloods.

A child looks
Into a vacant patch of loaded sky
Desperately with pale eyes
For something else
Perhaps for a football, a slate
or his slain future

He’s standing
On the ruin of democracy.

The cat walk of justice
On the ramp of “Communism”
Simulates erotic sense of Tatas, Ambanis, Bennis…

There, the tyrants are writing epitaph
For dying people
And writing welcome graphity
For corporate tycoons.

But singers of soil
Are tearing off the glamorous mask
Out of the vulgar face of Development-
Development at the gunpoint!

Special Eviction Zone
Social Eradication Zoo
Soul Erasing Zygote

SEZ’s are being created for
The creators of people’s car.

The other day farmer’s little son would ask
To his father flatly-
“Would you buy that car for me, baba?”
The answerless farmer would answer-
“My dear, I can’t buy back even our life bought by them”

Political power runs by
Rifles and cartridges
And power empowers powerful.
Power is yet to become power of powerless.
Its F A R
That little innocent boy
When he grows up
Then one day he would learn this reality
From his school of life.

A hard evening
Falls hardly
On the faint furious fields
Of Singur.

Doomed are the people.
Their dim eyes
Stretch wider and wider
With darkness deepening.


Eating grass.

Foxes hang around
In a busy city road.

Red flowers bloom in an old fern plant.

Eyes mimic
The blind.

Horns of a cat.

Liberal parody of czars.

At 5 P.M. to-day.

It Sounds Political

After all
Every question of the world
Boils down to the question of survival.

They say
They need to say so-
Love makes the difference.

But most of the times
They say only
Upside down of the things.

Who intoxicates
Our thoughts then
With sword like sweet words?

Their TV, their radio
Their media, their literature
They say
They badly need to say so
They are right
And our judgement should prove them right.

And when
We place some question
Forcing them to listen
They are irritated
And they say dizzily
-“You ain’t sound
That much political.”

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