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Narendra Kumar Arya


Split Me Apart

Make 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.

Picture
                                                                            

​Narendra Kumar Arya's profile

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.


Comments?

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