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Tuesday, October 18, 2016

And this our life, exempt from public haunt...

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Build

Nought for reading, one to learn,
Two for who knows what, and fun.
Three for testing some new thing,
Four for shocks the thing could bring.
Five for when you love your mother.
Six for when you'd like another.
Seven because there is still hope.
Eight because one hit, no scope.

And after eight, where machines end,
A human being may find a friend.
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Sunday, October 16, 2016

So The Series Isn't Over

Not too proud of this, but posting it anyway.

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Whiskey Man

Young man, it's closer than you remember
To the last time you liked September.
And, young man, though I don't drink,
I can be stronger than you think.
You like less meat on food and girls --
Limited spirits, spirited curls;
You like your Goddesses void of strength--
Not far too torn, nor too bent.

And old man! You've been in wars!
They came on foot, they came in cars!
You have seen your Goddess bleeding
Over a corpse, in urgent feeding;
She carried you through wind and frost
Away from battles safer lost.
She lived when you were left for dead,
She lived when you died in her bed.

And so young blood has never boiled
To see a Goddess torn and soiled!
And old blood, drained of desire,
Has learnt to think his love is higher.
Ever since, the Goddess, hidden,
Has watched herself become forbidden.
But say, old man, when she's not there,
Whiskey will take you anywhere.
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Monday, October 10, 2016

Bijoya

Maa, it has been a while since the lights went off. The people have packed, and last night will be over soon. Not much happens -- yet, every time it does, it leaves a gaping hole inside me. You are supposed to inspire strength -- and yet you leave me so weak. I, they say, was given life by you -- yet all I feel is my life leaving slowly.
Did I waste our precious fortnight on being happy, Maa? Should I have been angry instead? Should I have been pure, unwavering, unafraid; and would it have got me all I want?
Maa, this year too, I have failed to be the slightest shadow of you. I have feared. I have loved. I have cried. I have lost, to your cosmos and your plans. Who am I fighting against, Maa, and for who? Where are my demons, and do my Gods even know that I exist?
Your way might, after all, not be mine, Maa. The collected patience, the inspired courage, the flawless adherence to the essence of yourself -- it all could be too much for me. And yet, a change of path is not an option -- because you, because me, and because who else will?
I will try again next year -- there will be another swing at inspired strength and other such malarkey from your collection. You can sit on my head and inspire me, and I will try not to cry.
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