THE GAME

What seems to be fascinating

Soon becomes a void;

A river, robbed of its natural flow,

Bares boulders in its bed.

The privileged enjoy their clouts

And exploit every opportunity

To be in focus and fortune,

While the poor die unseen, unknown,

Fumbling in the dark.

Bridges break, towers fall and falls fraternity,

Giving rise to the walls which divide people.

Living in a fake world, I feel dying.

Should I sing psalms on those who build

Dreadful deceits and rob public property?

Should I write odes on those in power

And feel proud to be seen near?

No, my poem is not for them.

My poem, comfortable in silence,

Is scared of the world so selfish and violent.

It is scared of the brute force growing blue-lines

Everywhere, moving around to hit and run.

My poem doesn’t want to go out in the open,

Lest some mad mob should kill it in a clash

And rip apart its syntax of flesh and bone,

Scattering words and syllables in a blast.

My small town poem is not safe either

On the badly damaged road of the town

That sees monsoon after monsoon

Awaiting repair, harbouring rain water

And overflowing drains to wipe away its tone.

Disillusioned with everything

That the world makes me experience,

I would like to make poems of sand and surf

On the fair bare beach just for my pleasure.

I would build a new world of images,

Build and break on the sands and rebuild

To break again after the end of the game

And smile the supreme builder’s smile.

I would dance then in joy

To see the tides wash away

All my works and relics, leaving behind

A fresh field to begin new nothings

Till I have time to have the game going.

                  _____________    

 (from my forthcoming poetry collection

  "THIS LIFE, THIS DEATH")

 Bipin Patsani