Vine 1, Vine 2, Vine 3, Vine 4
Sharpie Right-ing
A mind is galvanized by possibilities,
The moment of discovering a ‘sharpie’…
That dispenses ink on everything –
Geography, history, medicine,
Constitutions, election results… name it!
Upon realizing this I tried it forthwith.
Picking up a globe, allotting victories
To those lying beneath the feet,
By redrawing boundaries as seemed fit,
I felt satisfied but intrigued.
Renaming oceans after native sons,
Abstracting historical narratives as told
By Amerindians, Filipinos or South Asians,
I noticed with awe
Something not even proponents
Of the implement foresaw…
The ink obeyed its own law…
For what I wrote with truthful intent,
In minutes vanished as if evanescent…
Leaving the old lies intact,
Replacing the mutant… but why.
Could it be that what’s written
With a sharp blade once,
Its namesake won’t erase… but will extend?
As for lies, it’s a tool without guile
Lately, even servile …
Though I’m positive the magic
Will flip in a short while.
– Bolbul
Foxnutty!
A school bus driving by a pond,
Stops to pick up
Water lilies or Fox Nuts…
Today, roasting Makhanas,
I heard the laughter
Of that far day in Bihar…
– Bolbul
Empyreal
Once a supra-constitutional emperor, Gavaskar,
Ruled India, her upper and nether.
Such was the arc of his blade,
That cannons hurling balls hell-made
At his kingdom, wilted limp as grass
Caribbean, Australian or English raised.
Countless projectiles he aimed
Through enemy covers, travelled
Far beyond the fence, entering space…
Where they spread the opening message
Of his country’s soul-lifting ingeniousness.
Fans dance like radiowaves
Still, when playing their own tunes
With willows… full of
Little-masterful rembrances.
– Bolbul
A Cryptic Curtain
As the curtain lifts on a poem
And you view –
A cloud masking a running moon,
Shards of light dangling upon
Leaves, smudges crowned,
Silvery or blue –
You wish a deciphering clue
To interpret this vista
As inner or outer, was there…
And judge the poet
A voice mystic or a soul solipsistic!
– Bolbul
Sluggish?!
When a morsel of a slug,
A jelly half of mud,
In a blink becomes a leaf,
Fools danger for relief –
You know life is
A bag of magic tricks!!
Say encore, please!
– Bolbul
A Pooping Tree
Why be
Fond of a pooping tree?!…
Picking up it’s droppings,
Asked he.
Enlightenment came as he ascended
To the terrace…
The reason writ on empyreal canvas,
Illuminated with lightning!
– Bolbul
Rites of the Billionths
With bricks of logic
Arcing and making grids,
We now build
Nano plazas and service chips
For one earth and unborn kids –
Slaying ogres of spiky nip,
Sprinkling shimmer on lips,
Pressing distant flesh with fingertips,
Moulding beauty such as this!
– Bolbul
A Meghadoot
Here, clouds loom in lovely plumes,
Grant agro-literary boons,
Occasionally even strike
With charged knives of light –
Though we don’t quite know
The how and why
As their breasts jealously hide
A thermal alchemy inside!
Difficult to probe, intended
To keep us from getting wise…
Until came one who dared make’em
In a lab, under the nose
And in plain sight –
Marking fluid moves with swirls of dye.
That was Prof Roddam Narasimha!
In monsoons, I shall inevitably think of him
He was a living Meghadootam!
– Bolbul
श्वेतसुर
बर्फ़ की घास में,
बर्फ़ीला एक फूल।
रोज सुबह मिलता,
मिलन का बन उसूल।
खोंस के ही रखना मीत,
वर्ना गीत जाओगे भूल।!
– बोलबुल
कल नहीं
कल मौत थी ग़ुस्से में,
तभी हवा तेज़ थी नथुनों में,
उड़ा रही थी पत्ते लक्कड़,
पर्दे, फ़र्निचर… चुनिंदा पुख्ता छप्पर!
उसे याद आया,
कई बार शाम ज़ोर दरवाज़ा खटखटाया –
नीचे, ऊपर, खिड़कियों पर
कोई आमादा था, घुसने को अंदर।
सुबह उजड़ों की खड़खड़ बीच
उसने पेड़ के रोते चिड़े से कहा,
मालूम तेरा घर बंद न होता,
चूँ चूँ सुना होता…
तो दरवाज़े खोल देता।
– बोलबुल
नज़दीकी, दूर होती
जो बोरियत से दे सके पनाह,
मेरी कलम रुके उसकी दरगाह।
——-
कैसे गाऊँ जानेवाली
के साथ कव्वाली?!
——
गँवाया सोना,
खोजूँ कोना कोना।
——-
तीर जो रुका तरकश,
जीने से रह गया बस।
जाती साँस
आपको है मेरी चहारदीवारी
से बस दूर रहने की बीमारी।
——-
क्या आप हैं वफ़ा
के नाम से भी ख़फ़ा?
——-
होगा मेरा ही करम
मुझसे तेज़, मेरी हमकदम।
——-
मेरी जान भले सही,
इस कलम की क्यों ली?!
——-
आपके पीछे, सुनी अफ़वाह,
कईयों ने की वाह वाह।!
——-
लिखवाए बेबस,
कंबख्त श्रृंगार रस।
La Fille Transformée
His Parisian friend seemed under the weather,
Something about a kid or the stresses of a teaching career…
He didn’t pursue the matter,
Asking instead for the way to the loo upstairs.
The French are deserving leaders
Du monde in lifestyle matters,
A position Patricia’s father helped cement
By installing assistive, robotic exemplars…
Evidence of his avant garde taste materialized everywhere.
When he came out of the loo,
His friend seemed altogether in a superior mood…
Saying, ‘Oh, I forgot to tell you,
The brush and the bidet were left on automatic…
How fared you?!’,
Chuckling in anticipation of the news.
‘I stand colonized again’,
He replied with grateful eyes,
‘Such sophistication neither Americans nor Indians ever enjoyed!’…
She seemed on the precipice of thunderous outbursts poised.
When a friend clicked des photos souvenir,
She was a picture of joie de vivre,
He didn’t have the heart to inform her,
He’d switched off the beast’s power.
Her father was told never
Of the incident… but
Why he should brazenly display his butt,
He couldn’t ever decipher!
– Bolbul
A Sporting Hand
Destiny plays ball with man,
Especially a sporting one, if she can.
She weaves, he dodges,
She throws, he catches…
But should he fail, he’s damned.
With pieces of calcium salts and collagen,
Disconnected and loathe to support him,
He realized destiny had dealt him a difficult hand,
If it was even his, to begin with…
That’s when he engages the lady
In a team game –
His medics weave steel, she dodges…
Yet they pull back the dislodges,
And against the setback,
The hand mysteriously mends.
The ballgame has re-begun,
But none wins, the man has learnt,
Against the lady ever…
For in this sport,
She plays the hands of giver and taker!
– Bolbul
Cold Shoulder of Water
Why she asked the Rio Grande
To take her daughter’s hand
And lead across the water
To where her dahlia flower
Would climb like a money plant…
She no mas understands.
Now looking at the pale sands,
The river’s dumped into her eyes,
Forcing two unceasing currents…
Mothers ask, ‘Aren’t there somewhere,
Banks colored humbler
To give us care?’
– Bolbul
Bolbul's Patch 