Monday, May 28, 2012

Myth kitchen


Myth kitchen


Some kinds of sounds are rumbling therein
the hearers thought that there must be a hag

A myriad of suffered eras are spent
and countless tears of compromise are dropped down
The cachinnating definers are always crafting conspiracy
to prove that those are the traditions and identity
But no one asked them
what is the masculine gender of a ‘hag’

Not asking the questions means
not to be an untruth
We… again and again are seeing that
the ‘other’ sprouted from Lacan
is beading this notion into another belief

The house…..after eating the youth of mother
didn’t spared the lives of other thousand daughters
Fathers and husbands
those who became much mightier
with the myth of narratives
they didn’t need the address of gender

Tenderness and love are the names
given by them… to you
But treading over these names
they grew higher and higher

The servant and the cook without a salary
the call girl without the wages
You…just within a life
sliced yourself in so many forms

Fatigued by the semblances of goddess and fragility
your life of youth is finished so far
Your tenderness and blooming stage heard
a thousand lizard words
but they also fell with the fallacy of season
You fed them with your breast
you bathed them with your blood
you said to them ‘O! My hope’
and finished yourself futilely

Needed is the reservation for
you to live here
required are the books to understand you
But while your body is praised
you didn’t claim that
you are also a perennial mind
in fact you are only a carrier of an immortal heart
and a body which will be demolished
with the passing seasons of age

Hearts never demand a home….. o mother
hearts never search reservation and the state
it lives lonely through every ages
and also ends lonely.

Thursday, June 9, 2011

prism of silence

it is one Pravin
wherein hundred Pravins breath
and which are apart from the notions
of narrator and hearer

the fallacy of words
weaved by these teller and listener
composes numerous Pravin
which we see
which we touch
and finally laugh
asserting that ‘it is’
‘yes it is’

sticking in the teeth of eater
one Pravin is crushed
somewhere in the tales
somewhere in the verses
someone would be daubing
the beauty and prominence
of this incidence

another Pravin is encashed
in the columns of balance sheets
there the mouth has lost its voice
and voices lost its strength

questioning that
with which Pravin would you like to be
prophets extract guru-mantra
from the fatigue of those strollers
and fly up high in the sky

but the earth does not flies
by flapping wings as they do
it never flies
rather it will be striking
the knifestrokes of silence ever
with the thousand colours of sensation

I always see the very Pravin
standing under the silence of bodhibriksha
who is looking exactly as the
unparalleled protagonist of Kafka
and whose actions are sceptical too

don’t know
why these helpless eyes persist
to get the warmth of some affection
from those betrayed siblings
don’t know

I cry Pravin cries
by flowing as the pus of
some unhealed injuries
in the bloody footprints of untold time

hey listen these voices
which are stuffed
in the silence of uncanny
and which are shut
in the words of unexplained.