"the torture never stops" - frank zappa

Three new poems by Pratapaditya with a little help from his friend


ALONE



The silence is oppressive-

An ominous presence.

The alarm clock in my head

Warns- time to ring…

The massive machinery

Lifts an enormous piston

And slowly kicks itself to life-

Rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr

rrrrrrrrrrriiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii

iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiinnnnnnnnnn

nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn

nnnnnnnnnnnngggggggggggggg

gggggggggggggggggggggggggggg!

The ringing is comforting-

A primordial distraction,

Keeping me from finding

Myself.




The Savage Associates:



As the clouds part momentarily,

A glimpse of the ancient woods

Where those great old men

Keep watch.

Majestic old men,

With long smooth gray beards,

Majestic noses,

Chins held humbly low.

Winded wizened skin, wrinkled

By their perpetual frown/s.

Why?

Creeping old age?

Or something you know

And I don’t, yet?

Are you a savage,

Like me, or

Have you evolved?

Are you trapped

In your coarse wizened skin

Or your igneous mind,

Like I am in mine?

Do you exist outside my mind,

And I, outside yours?

Or have we created each other

In our mutual error of association -

That spark of imagination called life?


Dusk in God’s Hand


Vehicles on a far away road,

Winding and whining, their sound

Filtered through

Swirling wisps of smoke/

My y)ears.

Another day,

Alive only for a day,

Changing seamlessly to night,

My temporary co-passenger

Who leaves before me.

It's God’s hand -

This beautiful landscape,

This imaginary fore-/background,

That exists in my head.


Piquant children,

Singing evening songs, their voices

seemingly (e)merging.

A distant bird,

Its name escapes me, a clutter

Of names, calling out simultaneously,

And it's difficult to say which one’s right.

Aditi's new beautiful poem

You say it's divine to love

And love shall

Help us find you



We love.

We love, we feel happy

That happiness lures us

To just let the love grow



And then



Then we suffer



We suffer

Because we have loved

We suffer

Every moment

The burden of that feeling

Heaves upon -

Difficult it becomes

To pull along

To breathe



We love, we suffer

We suffer and then beg

Cry out for help

For cure

For deliverance



We finally come



Knocking at your door



You are quite honest, I guess...

The poet of Wry Lives is Back with "Lace"!

Part 1

Remind them of reminiscence,

And see the sky turn gray over where I could not.

Carefully perceiving the others motives, - (is it other's or others')

And the wind between the trees- carefully blowing.

An October afternoon, quietly in-folding,

Breathing in the fumes of an imminent clash,

(Intimidate the other and half the fight is over.)

Foreign soil, poured into ours does not teem with plants here.

Here the Grapes are fresh and heavy, bending the bow upon which,

They see life and rain and sometimes sunshine.

Bending the bow upon which they reach their sordid purple state,

And shine with purple-ness, and glitter with the power of

hands and nothing more.

Come sad October afternoon,

And rub the shine from my day.

The polish was too tainted with grime,

for you to ignore.

Come and float slyly over the quiet scene.

Let no thought come between you and your subterranean lies.

The traffic was faint at points,

Rustling through various leaves.

And after that there was some smell of alcohol,

Decayed, old, uncomfortable alcohol.

Despite the afternoon, the road winded,

Stretching between one side and the other.

The cars were one with it- there was no separation between,

the two creations of reckless man.

And indeed we did look up, and see the Empty,

Stretching between the stars, so much,

Stretching between the stars.

We did somehow realize, and we do realize now-

Breathing into it will not create life.

Part 2

You did say to me, summer of winter,

That there was something to see in them.

I have not seen much yet, swimming inexplicably inside them.

Is that why?

Why me, summer of winter,

Why not you?

Or

Why not them?

Can you say, and try to feel,

Something happy or good to me,

Without you.

Can you say- I want you to find meadows, filled with carrion?

Can you say- I want you to sit still in a bowl of clear water?

And can you think yet again- I want you to be?

Can you say this and say this without you?

For if you can, oh Gardener of the East,

Then you will be one with me,

One with you,

One with them.

And one with them.

Part 3

Begin to suffice in tranquil scenes,

And see clearly, what you tread on.

Must I say to hear vast speech?

After the first word comes the second,

Unless you are higher than most.

One leads to the other that leads back to it,

And sometimes, they lead to nothing, but each other.

And that is nothing.

You know not what I talk of?

Do you not see it?

Walking beneath a glimpse of wanting,

Wailing beneath brightly lighted windows,

Full of white light and flickering screens.

Full of shallow questions about the night's show.

They lean against each other- these uncreated men.

And submit to each other their occupational forms,

That mark their joys.

And when they come to a brightly lit word,

They clap and pat each other on their backs,

But their cheeks hurt.

But before they part for the day, to tend to their wives,

They ask each other to draw the sunset.

Tomorrow it will be different, my poetic friend.

And come tomorrow too.

Part 4

Palatial establishments spread far,

And so do the dying embers of cold fires.

Cold fires spreading through.

You stand and watch the bull's blood being swallowed.

Do you cut it up to satisfy a gastronomic fancy?

Or do you view the universe in it's torn behind?

Vast palaces glinting in the light of dawn,

Pink and glorious, its marble threads, weaving away into the distance.

Behind lie the acidic green of an immature forest.

And beyond rise the remains of yellow mountains-

Diseased and yellow mountains, those glint in the morning light,

That beckon like desperate housewives, raving into the morning light,

At the milkman, who hurries away.

And the screen whirs and flickers, like a destitute widow beckoning wildly to a passerby-

Be it a man or a woman.

But from a distance they feel nothing.

Except the fury of a missed meeting.

If at some point, you decide to be free,

If at any point you decide to be free.

Look behind into the shadows- you may be followed.