Narendra Kumar Arya
Split Me ApartMake my million pieces
Flush them away, In Tsang Po, to the hungry seas Where grow carnivorous trees. Crush me Under your global intellect, Reducing me to pulverized anonymity; I am a narrative of infinitesimal impact Continuously retarded by your quizzical sense. I am as scattered as the earth Hyphenated, impoverished, gendered, hypnotized, From the enchantress of development, Of ideological lullabies, Doomed to experience From Hobart to Havana. A Tree-Skeleton
I am that night
On whose face infinite flows of darkness year after year Like sweat-grains are still wedged. On my half-open lips The smile Has shrunk sour. In my hair-holes Are found nests Of sparrows wriggling with pain My gradual transmutation to a tree-skeleton Is hardly decipherable, though; Even last ruffles have gone. No blood squirts From my immortal wounds Neither does it create any despicable scene. Now there are only relics of pain In my petrified veins Could you make more assaults on me? Would you be able to tolerate fresh stains of blood? On your new draped robes? Hanging Without Earth Down
This city hangs
Between Hades’ head and ogre’s mind Windy, vacuous, and dark spirited. There is no earth in it. Lacking any sense of being, Being live, being dead. It has stopped, It has clogged, It has drugged, It has robbed, It has killed, Annihilating everything. It has simply ceased to be. A great python stretching From Tijuana to Tokyo Deceived looks, deceiving names Fangs of familiar sizes, Appetitive always, to ingest Its own inhabitants. |
Have you ever...?
Have you ever seen
A tree Shadowed by Its own leaves? Try to recall A rope Which strangulated itself. Who has seen clouds Clip their own wings? A symphony Aborting its own crescendo? I have never been to a zoo Where cages were built By lions, giraffes or caribou. I have seen man Sink to his own self, Killed by his own ideas, Eating himself up Happily bleeding his soul. Return What I Owe to the Rain
I wake
At least thrice a night To return My debts to the rains That I borrow Glasses full Before I sleep. It felt like water, It was not; It was not even a streak of liquid vapor It was filth I had collected All day long. Some of it came from toxic blood, Some of it from dirty heart, Rest came for my de Sade brain, Unsuitable for healthy dreams. Death is a Doorbell
Death:
It can scare Only once, or never, Like the neighbor next-door, No matter how dreadful. It has to approach at once-- Installments do not frighten. In an instant It has to accomplish its feat; Otherwise death is a doorbell That never rings, In an abandoned apartment. |