The Imprisoned Forest

Scratches of my pen
Like prison bars
Hold something down.
Or maybe nothing exists
Beyond what is left.:

A fear grows in me,
As I watch the last line droop
And wither, before the new one begins.

Sometimes I feel like the forest
Forsaken by its animals –
A premonition,
That brings the chainsaws.

~Aniket Alam~

– –
Published by Danse Macabre in their September 2010 editon: La Cour des Miracle

Star Gazing

Maybe some ancient astronomer
stood on a hill
and saw the stars above.
Maybe he wondered at our world,
our universe, and beyond.
And told stories of these wonders
to the children of his clan.

Maybe some ancient lover, star gazing
saw the eyes of her beloved
and remorse may have squeezed out a tear
reflecting the stars and the moon.
A kaleidoscope of memories,
diverting her thoughts back to
the stories of grandfather astronomer.

And maybe mothers told these stories
to their wide eyed wondering children.
As ancient tales and trails turned modern
maybe people still cuddled ‘round fires.
Talking about devils, gods and stars
As the flames danced in their eyes
Till the embers twinkled out cold.

And years of tear shedding
Years of storytelling, star gazing
Left the wonder undimmed and intact.
But star poems have lost their lustre
Since A-grade stars are marketed
With lasers, space ships and aliens
For 10 rupees at our local video store.

And we all watch them.

~Aniket Alam~

– –
Published in Danse Macabre’s La Cour des Miracles edition of September 2010.

The Crow on the Wall

Like the noise of a forlorn horn
Not working, it caws.
Like a glistening coal covered miner
It considers the world.
Like the twinkle of light in a gem
It expectantly eyes me.
Like an oracle cursing with a fling of his hand
I shoo it away.

~Aniket Alam~

– –
Published in Danse Macabre’s La Cour des Miracles edition of September 2010.

The Embarrassing Episode of Little Miss Muffet

Little Miss Muffet discovered a tuffet,
(Which never occurred to the rest of us)
And, as ’twas a June day, and just about noonday,
She wanted to eat – like the rest of us:
Her diet was whey, and I hasten to say
It is wholesome and people grow fat on it.
The spot being lonely, the lady not only
Discovered the tuffet, but sat on it.

A rivulet gabbled beside her and babbled,
As rivulets always are thought to do,
And dragon flies sported around and cavorted,
As poets say dragon flies ought to do;
When, glancing aside for a moment, she spied
A horrible sight that brought fear to her,
A hideous spider was sitting beside her,
And most unavoidably near to her!

Albeit unsightly, this creature politely Said: “
Madam, I earnestly vow to you,
I’m penitent that I did not bring my hat.
I Should otherwise certainly bow to you.”
Thought anxious to please, he was so ill at ease
That he lost all his sense of propriety,
And grew so inept that he clumsily stept
In her plate – which is barred in Society.

This curious error completed her terror;
She shuddered, and growing much paler, not
Only left tuffet, but dealt him a buffet
Which doubled him up in a sailor knot.
It should be explained that at this he was pained:
He cried: “I have vexed you, no doubt of it!
Your fists’s like a truncheon.” “You’re still in my luncheon,”
Was all that she answered. “Get out of it!”

And the Moral is this: Be it madam or miss
To whom you have something to say,
You are only absurd when you get in the curd
But you’re rude when you get in the whey.

– Guy Wetmore Carryl –

The Prison Cell

It is possible…
It is possible at least sometimes…
It is possible especially now
To ride a horse
Inside a prison cell
And run away…

It is possible for prison walls
To disappear,
For the cell to become a distant land
Without frontiers:

What did you do with the walls?
I gave them back to the rocks.
And what did you do with the ceiling?
I turned it into a saddle.
And your chain?
I turned it into a pencil.

The prison guard got angry.
He put an end to the dialogue.
He said he didn’t care for poetry,
And bolted the door of my cell.

He came back to see me
In the morning.
He shouted at me:

Where did all this water come from?
I brought it from the Nile.
And the trees?
From the orchards of Damascus.
And the music?
From my heartbeat.

The prison guard got mad.
He put an end to my dialogue.
He said he didn’t like my poetry,
And bolted the door of my cell.

But he returned in the evening:

Where did this moon come from?
From the nights of Baghdad.
And the wine?
From the vineyards of Algiers.
And this freedom?
From the chain you tied me with last night.

The prison guard grew so sad…
He begged me to give him back
His freedom.

~ Mahmoud Darwish [1941-2008] ~

Translated by Ben Bennani

On his Blindness

.

When I consider how my light is spent
     Ere half my days in this dark world and wide,
     And that one talent which is death to hide
     Lodg'd with me useless, though my soul more bent
 To serve therewith my Maker, and present
     My true account, lest he returning chide,
     "Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?"
     I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent
 That murmur, soon replies: "God doth not need
    Either man's work or his own gifts: who best
    Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state
Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed
    And post o'er land and ocean without rest:
    They also serve who only stand and wait."      

 ~ John Milton ~    .

River

.

Its coming on christmas
Theyre cutting down trees
Theyre putting up reindeer
And singing songs of joy and peace
Oh I wish I had a river
I could skate away on
But it dont snow here
It stays pretty green
Im going to make a lot of money
Then Im going to quit this crazy scene
I wish I had a river
I could skate away on
I wish I had a river so long
I would teach my feet to fly
Oh I wish I had a river
I could skate away on
I made my baby cry

He tried hard to help me
You know, he put me at ease
And he loved me so naughty
Made me weak in the knees
Oh I wish I had a river
I could skate away on
Im so hard to handle
Im selfish and Im sad
Now Ive gone and lost the best baby
That I ever had
Oh I wish I had a river
I could skate away on
I wish I had a river so long
I would teach my feet to fly
Oh I wish I had a river
I made my baby say goodbye

Its coming on christmas
Theyre cutting down trees
Theyre putting up reindeer
And singing songs of joy and peace
I wish I had a river
I could skate away on

~ Joni Mitchell ~

——— ——— ———

A nice ‘alternative’ song on Christmas.

Redemption Song

.

Old pirates, yes, they rob I;
Sold I to the merchant ships,
Minutes after they took I
From the bottomless pit.
But my hand was made strong
By the hand of the almighty.
We forward in this generation
Triumphantly.
Wont you help to sing
These songs of freedom? -
cause all I ever have:
Redemption songs;
Redemption songs.

Emancipate yourselves from mental slavery;
None but ourselves can free our mind.
Have no fear for atomic energy,
‘cause none of them-a can-a stop-a the time.
How long shall they kill our prophets,
While we stand aside and look?
Yes, some say it’s just a part of it:
We’ve got to fulfil the book.
Won’t you help to sing
Theser songs of freedom?
‘cause all I ever had:
Redemption songs -
All I ever had:
Redemption songs:
These songs of freedom,
Songs of freedom.

~ Bob Marley ~

—–     ——      ——

This has been a song I have listened to and enjoyed since my teenage, but now that I traveled in Haiti and Jamaica and listened to the stories of the Maroons it resonates very differently for me now.

From the Frontier of Writing

The tightness and the nilness round that space

when the car stops in the road, the troops inspect

its make and number and, as one bends his face

towards your window, you catch sight of more

on a hill beyond, eyeing with intent

down cradled guns that hold you under cover

and everything is pure interrogation

until a rifle motions and you move

with guarded unconcerned acceleration --

a little emptier, a little spent

as always by that quiver in the self,

subjugated, yes, and obedient.

So you drive on to the frontier of writing

where it happens again. The guns on tripods;

the sergeant with his on-off mike repeating

data about you, waiting for the squawk

of clearance; the marksman training down

out of the sun upon you like a hawk.

And suddenly you're through, arraigned yet freed,

as if you'd passed from behind a waterfall

on the black current of a tarmac road

past armor-plated vehicles, out between

the posted soldiers flowing and receding

like tree shadows into the polished windscreen.

~  Seamus Heaney  ~

 —–     —–      —–

I found this poem some months back when it was still warm in Delhi and it seemed to remind me of the warmth of the winter sun. The warmth of recognising a feeling so familiar that it remains cold and unrecognised, the satisfaction of finding someone who could give words and emotions to that journey I had been taking each week for the past few months.

The Burning Ravana in Autumn Twilight

.

The sun flirted with the autumn evening,

Disappearing behind scattered clouds,

As the hills rolled darkly

And lights warmed distant homes.

 

In the far reaching horizon,

The sky swirled from orange

To the wonderous, heavenly shades

Of twilight.

 

The half moon brightened up,

And hung by invisible bonds

From the opening stars,

Exaggerated twilight.

 

The crickets started their monotony,

The pines and bushes grew dark

Radiating jungle fears

And flickering firefly lights.

 

Two birds, worm weary,

Sailed the darkening expanse

Overhead, leaving the day

And its finds behind.

 

Leaving only the burning Ravana,

His cannonade of bursting crackers

Raging inferno and cumulus smoke,

Lonely in that autumn twilight.

 

~Aniket Alam~

 

—

I wrote this poem exactly 20 years ago. Well almost. Dussehra fell on 2 October in 1987. I was in class 11 at that time, studying in Central School in Shimla. We lived in the Himachal Pradesh University campus where my father taught political science. Next to our block of flats was a large playing field, the far end of which hosted the colourful effigies of Ravan and his brothers on Dussehra each year.

This is not a great poem and I have refrained from dumping my teenage exeburance on this site. Till now. But recently, in a crass display of nepotism and self-advertisement, I have lowered the poetic benchmarks for my own verses and decided to publish them here. Most of the two hundred odd poems I wrote are very embarrassing and you will be spared them. Some are not that bad. This being one of them. The reason I still like this poem is for the sense of loss it has at the burning of the demon king. Plus that it reminds me of a particularly fond personal memory…

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