Mahesh Balasubramanian
By
Purabi Bhattacharya
Let there be riot
let there be riot
some ear deafening drum beating, screeching ululation
color bombing, laughter parade
around all that bazaar raucous
let me shed some kilos of fatigue
waffling with crowd, unprobing.
This is the moment,
i stand still and watch time stealthily work through
the ritual; the hours
metamorphose
into a new widow.
Burying unease, between those heavy bosoms
while i watch you shed some inconsolable whys,
i hold firm the flambeau
step by step, set russet the memories of my being.
Majestic, brother Brahmaputra by my side
stands refilling his reservoir.
i return mother to your lap, no longer a child;
a fatherless woman.
7 tales from Desertcomb
I
Of late the feathered presences take no cable lines and swing, any more
sun baked predator perch languorously
skimpy lane, nude farmlands
charred hope and its black body remains.
II
Hilltops, desert shrub spread
on one of the banks of dry Sabarmati riverbed
greets a crematorium,
home to blue bulls and untamed asses, lovers and peddlers alike.
III
Blocks after blocks, standstill
where Snehlata the snake slithered
the builders with their axes, left her tail end on one,
the hood buried under the debris of thousand dreams.
IV
Faces unfamiliar, smile brace-tucked
neckpieces for leashes
in land where only money speaks, one can buy
ersatz grin.
V
Doors are kept ajar
at the call of surname, hands reach out for swords
blood for blood
caste cusp.
VI
Saffron flutter, marigold garland
bandana swagger
in this land of subscribers, either one worships
or pulls a rickshaw, faith fastened.
VII
The pigeons are summer beaters
huddled in a corner
grunting,
the pail of water, boils their first love.
Poems with striking and vivid imagery and angst for eco-harmony.
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