Thursday, November 25, 2010

Cry to Rome

The teachers show the children
a marvellous light coming from the mountain;
but what arrives is a union of sewers
where the dark nymphs of cholera scream.
Devoutly the teachers point out huge fumigated domes;
but beneath the statues there’s no love,
no love beneath the eyes set in crystal.
Love is there, in
in the tiny hut struggling against the
love is there, in ditches where snakes of hunger wrestle,
in the sad sea that rocks dead gulls,
and in the darkest stinging kiss under pillows.
But the old man with the luminous hands
will say: love, love, love,
cheered on by millions of the dying;
will say: love, love, love,
in the shimmering tissue of tenderness:
will say: peace, peace, peace,
among shivering knives and melons of dynamite;
will say: love, love, love,
until his lips turn to silver.
Meanwhile and meanwhile and meanwhile,
blacks collecting up the spittoons,
boys trembling beneath directors’ bloodless ferocity,
women drowned in mineral oils,
crowd with hammer, violin or cloud
must yell even if their brains splatter on the wall,
yell before the domes,
yell maddened by
yell maddened by snow,
yell with heads full of excrement,
yell like every night in one,
yell with a voice torn terribly
until cities tremble like girls
and burst the prisons of oil and music,
because we want our daily bread,
alder-flower and everlasting harvest of tenderness,
because we want Earth’s will be done,
the Earth that gives her fruit to all.

Thursday, November 18, 2010


An oil painting by the German artist Gerhard Richter.
सुखकर गाढ़ी होती गहरी नीली यादें
फैलाया हुआ पीला इकरार इंकार
हल्का हरा दुःख लाल सुख में मिला हुआ
सफ़ेद सच सबसे आगे सबके पीछे ओझल
कुछ  हल्की, कुछ गहरी रेखाएं जैसे नयी, पुरानी उम्मीदें
कुछ मिटते, कुछ उभरते हुए  आकार  जैसे नए, पुराने सपने
अधूरी अभिव्यक्ति
एक उभरती आकृति
न ख़त्म होती तस्वीर
जैसे ज़िन्दगी