Day 14 – a poem that no one would expect you to love
Sri Sri is a relatively new find. His poetry isn’t typical of the usual stuff I’m drawn to, but I’m really, really liking the surrealistic elements in his work.
Some People Laugh, Some People Cry
A man investigates holes. They differ in size.
A man offers anarchy for sale. He appears to be wading in space, searching for something with his long arms. He eats nothing but the giant lemon found in the lakes of blood in the hearts of the young. That too, only once a day.
A man spends time singing Raga Khamboji. It is not unnecessary to remind you that he has a flute with him. He has fingers only to legislate the ragas sung at appropriate times. At their touch stars catch fire. Lakes on the moon come to a boil. Winter begins to bud and my heart begins to offer marriage to the butterfly.
A man puts camphor in his eyes and red lead on his cheeks. He is a poet. He interprets the messages he receives in secret code and works for the air force. He is the one big reason for the fall of prices in the market.
A man meditates with a string of rudraksha beads around his neck. What’s the use of your knowing that there’s no use in my pleading with people not to break coconuts in front of him?
A man loves only one woman. She dies. Follow the rest of the story on the silver screen.
A man gets hanged. Society buys peace with his death. The law sighs with relief. Every evening a blind dog visits the spot where his blood was spilled and barks piteously. This man was so proud he refused to say he was unjustly hanged.
A man becomes great by making speeches. Another becomes poor by drinking too much. One takes a copper from his maternal aunt and buys a kite. Another grabs it from him.
A man runs away. Another screws up his life. Another gets married. One man sleeps. Another dozes. Another talks and talks away time. One man’s crying makes you laugh; another’s laugh makes you cry. I can prove this with examples
And on and on and on and on and on and on and on.
Sir, when will this end?
Son, this is endless.
Day 15 – A poem that describes you
I’m not as bad as the woman in the poem, but I’m a compulsive worrier. I obsess over little things I have no control over and torment myself with it. Attractive, I know.
I’m a lot better now though (I think)
The Woman who Worries Herself to Death
She wasn’t robbed or raped or made a scapegoat of,
she didn’t take ill-fated flights on shaky planes and
no one splashed her house in paint. Kids with hoods
and sovereign rings and hates left her alone. That twinge
she sometimes felt was just a twinge. Her fillings didn’t
leak. At office dos she danced and no one laughed.
Her children didn’t have disorders, fail exams,
take smack. Her husband didn’t love his secretary
or get the sack. But, if you saw her fidgeting
towards the dawn, her breathing playing tricks,
a thousand what ifs snaking in a queue, you’d feel for her,
you’d wish she had something to pin her torment to.