Funeral Blues By W.H. Auden

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

The Day I Live To See

I lay quite quiet,
still and motionless,
eyes laze floating thither
brain crouches working overtime.

Don’t breathe and
this too shall pass.
This life, this life that
I live in as if on rent.

Lay low enough and a day will come
When no one will notice
When no one will remember
When no one will care
Who I was and other details

That is the day I live to see.

Train Travel

Empty seats welcome an uncertain traveller
Finicky and nitpicky-anticipating discomfort.

When the seats begin their journey
Monsooned scenery smiles a clean green
And clouds lean against mountains, spent.
The cool breeze charms the now comfy traveller
Blowing wet suggestive kisses, urging
Movement to mould those dreams of possibilities.

Dirty houses with their dirty smells
Lines are crossed and tempers flare.
A sudden hotness throws a blow; sticky,
The dreamer is pushed out of the dream
Making the green lose its sheen.
Pokey pines and bald mountains in fatigues
Stand around in attention obeying orders.

Huffing and puffing the journey continues
Sweat pools, frustration ebbs and sleep flows
Outside, the evening smiles on the horizon
Making nature smile back, subdued.

When the destination stops the traveller
The breeze, the greenery, the mountains-
They go away with the train;
Props for another travel.

Traveller collects around the luggage
This punch of reality smarting
Backing into life stupified
Hailing an auto and haggling.

I Come And Stand At Every Door By Nâzım Hikmet Ran

I come and stand at every door

But no one hears my silent tread

I knock and yet remain unseen

For I am dead, for I am dead.

I’m only seven although I died

In Hiroshima long ago

I’m seven now as I was then

When children die they do not grow.

My hair was scorched by swirling flame

My eyes grew dim, my eyes grew blind

Death came and turned my bones to dust

And that was scattered by the wind.

I need no fruit, I need no rice I

need no sweet, nor even bread

I ask for nothing for myself

For I am dead, for I am dead.

All that I ask is that for peace

You fight today, you fight today

So that the children of this world

May live and grow and laugh and play.

Such A Waste

Born into a pompous royal breed
His father an esteemed doctor
His mother a mighty matriarch
Life never raised unpleasant questions then

So through college they slacked, heedless hooligans
Money assuring seats for these reckless
One to sustain her father’s legacy
Takers too many to be the prodigal one

Life was heedless in its youth
Voyages to worlds of the many novels read
The long absences and the Camay soap
Easy to learn are the ways of good life

Gripping events rocked the boat
Fortune with her walk out
And Destiny’s cart wheel
While Hope played hide and seek

Rot set in with the monsoon
Skies crying relentless tears in repentance
A drunken haze shrouded streets ahead
Free advice deafening like thunder

Like a phoenix rose an unlikely straw
Independence nurturing her boundlessness
Maintaining social norms, denouncing freedom
She was all the woman she could be.

Another like strained tea, lay collected in the sieve
Failure plays Denial on stage
False pride disguises the inadvertent crumble
Sometimes in Anger, Distortion otherwise.

Flashback a montage of poor choices
HEED- bold, bright and underlined
In invisible ink of course
No life deserves such imprudence.

Old Friends Are Young Friends

Waved down an auto
negotiated the fare;
Tuk-tuk it sped
With us in its rear.

Skipping over potholes
rocking us snug;
Delusional in its abilities
it raced speeding bugs.

Hopping across lanes and
scampering against one ways;
We toured the little city
forgetting our morose weekdays.

Years had passed;
Changes were many
Some of us even
had some pennies.

We three sat talking;
Three we sat mum.
Moronic trio in a blast of
our selves from the past!

I Dwell In Possibility

I dwell in Possibility–
A fairer House than Prose–
More numerous of Windows–
Superior–for Doors–

Of Chambers as the Cedars–
Impregnable of Eye–
And for an Everlasting Roof
The Gambrels of the Sky–

Of Visitors–the fairest–
For Occupation–This–
The spreading wide my narrow Hands
To gather Paradise–

-Emily Dickinson

Delusion Angel From Before Sunrise

Daydream delusion,
Limousine eyelash,
Oh, baby with your pretty face,
Drop a tear in my wineglass,
Look at those big eyes,
See what you mean to me,
Sweet cakes and milkshakes,
I am a delusioned angel,
I am a fantasy parade,
I want you to know what I think,
Don’t want you to guess anymore,
You have no idea where I came from,
We have no idea where we’re going,
Launched in life,
Like branches in the river,
Flowing downstream,
Caught in the current,
I’ll carry you, you’ll carry me,
That’s how it could be,
Don’t you know me?
Don’t you know me by now?

My Many Aborted Babies

Thoughts hit me in a blinding flash
Of sublime pleasure of knowing it all
In the store room measuring out flour
In the bus looking out of the window

Beautifully strung words strangle
Stunning, choking, numbing
Mind like a mirage beckons
To that elusive paradise

Paralysing in its intensity,
taunting lingers momentary.
Softening into oblivion like suds
Gifting a mélange of glee and gloom

A mesmerising drama of conception
and annihilation;
played out for me by me.
They are my many aborted babies.

I’ve never known bliss
I’ve never known that that was it
But in the numbered moments of reminiscence
I know that this had to be it.

The Hen Story

Not to worry dear
cheer is near.
Pick up a pen and
draw out a hen.

Colour her yellow to
make her mellow.
She is just a hen so
she couldn’t fight men

If she is red
she will cause dread.
Do as you are told or
you won’t live to turn old.

Sure they stared
Both pen and men paired.
Tell them Ben—
what colour is your hen?

Out she came,
glad and game,
purple and pink
no time to blink.

Think, think.

Queer was Ben’s hen
what say the men and the pen?