Poetry

Reuters photo

By

P C K Prem

Another Time

This age is killing. It is awful,

to exist as a burden on a man who breaks skulls daily

and wants to live with an empty head.

It is a longing to serve humanity so to say

and so prays to die in stillness of an inner dead sea

in terror and fears and so the life is buried.

He learnt to live with dread and untruth

but could not live and friends detested and espoused,

a different path unheard until then.

This is an age of no scruples designed, nothing, in barmy sprint

happens yet it is a happening time in a void without a movement.

It stays in motion and yet looks as if running around.

A burnt-up feeling in blazing ashes so the world goes on,

and he emerges out of a coma with scissors working

and hands down a proposal to heart beatings.

To live again without kidneys better in a retired than active form,

it is a fact that desk masters are a collective force of brutes

in politics, inhuman and nursing tribal instincts undefined.

In proposition the world lives he knows and suffocates in the hope,

of a Kalki that a saviour in chaos will take birth but it will

not happen for perpetuate an ailment such intentions.

Only A Proposition

A boney clerk looks fat also, exalted and lonely in deep eyes

ensconced in a snug cage with blowers.

An old time event it is, for decades he dealt with files and tags

it is a repetition boring as pins pierce into a theory

propounded in the air and rejected.

But facts survive and bodies like bony clerks

big and pigmies, gods may be.

He was a god when a desk sitter

and a saint, state patronage and salaried, no doubt.

A big man, a clerk, a bony figure, fat going and

bulky, sleep a great planner, a swindler also like others.

Not a schemer, he is if you tell definitely raises eyebrows

and I certify an explanation, that he counts steps on roads,

really doesn’t know why rulers tell lies,

but in deceit is the future of the clerks and the leaders

Perhaps the ancient Chanakya said so

the politicians, the men on nibs and papers.

Plato was not a wise man and so had the vision

and cowboy ethics is not pertinent.

Confucius thought deeply but in vain

Buddha, a grand Bodhisattva all appear non-entities.

Mahatma was born at a wrong time Hitler died too early he feels.

Now violence, blood and butchery appalls a first-rate essay

to underrate, he says the much hated man Hitler

was better than today’s killers unidentified or even quite known

recognize love for humanity.

P C K Prem

P C K Prem (P C Katoch of Garh-Malkher, Palampur, Himachal, a former academician, civil servant and member psc hp, Shimla) is an author of more than fifty books. A post-graduate in English literature from Punjab University, Chandigarh, he is associated with several social/literary organizations, has brought out nine volumes of poetry besides five books on criticism, two books on ancient literature, six novels and two collections of short fiction. Creative writings in Hindi include twenty novels, nine books on short fiction and a collection of poems. Recipient of several awards, Katoch Prem is a poet, novelist, short story writer and a critic in English and Hindi from Himachal, India.