Wine

You didn't come into this house so I might tear off
a piece of your life. Perhaps when you leave
you'll take something of mine: chestnuts, roses or
a surety of roots or boats
that I wanted to share with you, comrade.

From Neruda's poem 'Wine'

Dream Horses

...There is a country stretched across the sky
strewn with the rainbow's superstitious carpets
and evening's vegetation:
that way I go - not without some fatigue,
treading grave loam, fresh from the spade,
dreaming among these doubtful greens...

This is a stanza taken from Pablo Neruda's poem 'Dream Horses.'

You don't even know

And then there are times
that I miss you
you don't know when
and you don't know how;
Funny thing is
you don't even know
it's you who I miss.
-GG

That's my impromptu FB status message that turned out to be somewhat nice

Because I always smile

Because I always smile
don't think there are no tears

that I hide.

Because I always love,
don't think there is no hate
that I have known.

Because I tolerate the ifs and buts
don't think I don't have
the power of rationale and reason.

Because I am always good
don't assume that I can never be otherwise.

-GG

Poetry and Prose

The distance between poetry and prose
is the difference between reality and hope.
Poems come to me in the peak of optimism
and prose reminds me to get back to work.

-GG

On 114th

And then,
When all is said and done,
Will you still come looking,
to the bench where I always sit,
below the flowering tree,
on 114th street?

-GG

Baby love

Curl your fist around 
my fingers and babble your 
baby love, sweet love. 
-GG

The No. 7 Train

Languages clash on engrossed cell phones
that are unmindful of public space.
Black and brown shoes rest in different pairs of legs;
Keep their distance like respectful strangers.

I keep my face down,
resist the view of the big city flying below;
For eyes can't reach where the mind is now:
Home.

Red manicured fingers tap iPhones;
When will fashion come natural to me?
Large studded earrings dangle music
from ear plugs and mock my loneliness.

I see shadows of gloom as bright white morning light
falls on sloped roofs and cars and Taco Bell;
No one told me that New York City looks
poor and lonely from the no. 7 train.

I am on the no. 7 train;
A long, long way from home.

-Gauri Gharpure
October 27, 2011

Yellow leaves

Yellow leaves; their edges cut by zig-zag magic scissors
by a child idle on an afternoon holiday.
Yellow fall on green lawn:
Like hope discarded, like love gone.

Windows fuzzy with cold memories
of sunny faraway morns witness
the flight of orange-yellow leaves
that swirl and tango their last dance.

-GG

My best friend's wedding

It's a morning of hope.
As I look back, I see her
in Jr-Kg group photo:
Two thick plaits, kohl-smeared eyes, a huge grin.

I remember the times we laughed to tears,
Her signature eccentric quips
That gave a whacky perspective
To many a life-changing things...

Tomorrow, you will be gone:
Mrs. doesn't sound as fancy as Ms.
But I know you will live it all up
In your flamboyant, who-cares style.

Remember me even as you get engrossed
in the journey ahead, let it be fruitful.
When you look back, I will always be there;
And it's only old friends who can call a spade a spade.

For S.

And all shall pass

When the storm subsides
And the wind stops howling,
Listen to the silence;
It will speak to you.

Hang in there just some more,
This too shall pass.
The fear will fade;
You are brave.

When love restores your faith,
And trust births in you again;
He will absolve you of all
That now crowds your guilt.

Some more faith,
Some more love,
And all shall pass.
And all shall pass.

-Gauri Gharpure
May 15, 2011

A Punch on the Left

So you talked about equality, Sir;
As you puffed that cigarette in roundabout whirls.
So you talked about the hungry, abused and the oppressed, Sir;
As your wife fried bhetki after bhetki*.

You snubbed her right in front of your comrades
For you insisted "Women must know their place."
So much for equality and social rights, Ha!
Your woman has lost her voice...

Your arrogance was pungent and sorry,
But your comrades perfectly understood the necessary dominance,
They nodded as you commanded your wife back in the kitchen,
She retreated hurt and hounded, sought solace in her sacred space.

Sir, your hypocrisy is shocking, your doublespeak commendable:
How beautifully chauvinism and culture blends in your town
How intriguing is your politics, how stinking is its stink,
Orwell was right when he conceived the idea of doublethink.

How about first bringing the revolution
you propose for the landless and the needy
within the precincts of your feudal patriarchal regime?
How about letting your wife vomit the words she has eaten up all her life?

So much for your suffocating talks of ideals and equality,
So much for your sham of decency and morality;
You can fool a thousand others who think like you,
But you cannot fool a million others who will still see through.

So much for what is gone,
So much for what is left.
As the ballots are counted, manipulated, maligned,
I just have this to say:

I don't understand politics, but I was brought up in equality;
As a woman, I am disappointed in the way you live your ideology.
Don't try it on me, your wife you could snub;
But I am made of stronger stuff.

West Bengal socio-politics.

*Bhetki : An expensive freshwater fish popular in West Bengal and Eastern regions of India

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Remembering Bhagat Singh and Tagore's Tota Kahini

Let's sing a new song

It's been a while since I laughed so much, I cried.
Since I dreamt of dreams
Of love, roses and pink skies.
It's been a while and it's time to sing some new songs.

Let's sing a new song...

-GG

Where you go

Something like happiness,
Where you go, how you evade me?

Here I am listless, dazed,
Hoping and waiting.
Something like happiness,
Where you go?

GG October 24 2010

Seesaw

Life's lately been a
seesaw. Up down Up again.
What more can I say?

:)

My sorrow is not for sale

My sorrow is not for sale,
Nor for exhibition.
Yet I end up auctioning my tears
The devil bids the highest.

GG. April 13.

Somewhere

Somewhere alone, lonely
sleeps a weary soul.
Somewhere silent, sobbing
dreams a defeated soul.

Somewhere far away
lies are being woven,
truth being distorted.
Sleep. But how?

GG, Feb 21, Sunday

And another day begins

And another day begins
Sunrise so fresh
after the stench of night
that was unbearable, uncouth.

And another day begins
Birds sing as if no one died.

-Gauri Gharpure
Kolkata, Jan 16.

Technical hitches and a poem

Google reader is behaving erratically. My new posts are not being updated and am quite worried as I don't know how to set this right.

Bloggers with a gifted techie side, please help...

Other than that, there's a small poem I would like you to read.

A government hospital is written on my poem blog, Short and Sweet. Feedback, discussions most welcome on that site.

I wrote this the same day I posted the matar sandwich recipe.. Now you know why the quick fix. i had visited a filthy hospital ward that day and my spirit had drooped low, very low...

Poems — In your language :)

This is an excerpt of a lovely poem by Baruk:

in your language, not mine
will i abuse and curse at you
and scream and rail and rant at you
in your language, not mine.

The poem has been recognized by Amnesty International (Aotearoa New Zealand) and was read out on Courage Day.

Also read this post called Grin and the interesting discussions in the comment section.

Initially when I began reading his blog, I thought his posts were too full of anger. Then, I slowly got used to his way of writing and began loving the way he morphs his angst into lovely, strong poems.

Ever so often, I feel sad that poems only pose prodding questions in a wordy way, questions to which we have no answers and so get frustrated. Once out of the system, the best a good poem can do is to act as a catalyst for more thoughts, introspection and sometimes debates. But even within this limited scope, poems can do a mighty lot.

Read about George Orwell's take on poems that I mentioned in this long post. He says that poems can survive even in the face of totalitarianism. Excerpts from Orwell's essay are written towards the end.

Coming back to this poem...

As I read In your language not mine again, I realise how relevant it is in the vicious times we live in. The immediate connect reading it this time was with the episode in which MNS members of legislature allegedly manhandled and even slapped Samajwadi party MLA Abu Azmi when he began taking his oath in Hindi. Some people were actually cheering the vandalism as another act of bravado in defense of Marathi asmita...

My favourite poem from Baruk is Api's thlan