Poems | Prabhat Jha

Credits: Amrit Ghosal

Bees inside the Beehive

Memory,
How convenient is it for you to erase everything?
Genocides, Gas Chambers, Ghetto makers, rotten, burnt dead bodies.
Everything disappears in oblivion.

Religion,
How important is it for you?
Gods, Goddesses, Mother India, holy rivers, temples, idols, cut-outs.
Everything is in front of you,
On a stinky platform,
Never to be forgotten.

Opinions,
How far do they irritate you?
Left, secular, independent, thought, reason, empathy,
Everything is useless
For the idol must be worshipped.

History,
How do you see it?
My history, your history, truth, agenda, propaganda.
How dare you negate?

Nation,
Who shall be there?
Nation,
Who shall be there?
You, You, You, and not they?
Them Jews,
Them Muslims,
Them Tribals
Them Dalits.

Future,
What do you want to see?
Go get the a job, promotion, go get rich,
Kill ‘em all, make it easier.
Support him, Support her, for they’ll make it happen   .
.
Useless?
Love, empathy, courage, society, people, me.
Bullshit.
We are the bees inside this Beehive.


Ban Dook Dom

Ban Ban Ban Dook Dom
A Kingdom of Ban Dook Dom

Ban beef, Ban grief,
Ban chef, Ban Chief,
Ban all the movies, Ban Dook Dom
Ban pussy, Ban Cock, Ban Dook Dom

Ban love, Ban dove,
Ban protests, Hand cuffs.
Ban heads, Ban hands,
Ban gays, holding hands.

Ban Tribals, Ban trees,
Ban farmers, you can’t seize,
Ban eyes, Ban heads,
That look at you, not dead
 Ban Dook Dom.

Ban dikidi dokidi dikidi hoop
Ban Press, on loop loop loop.
Here in your commode my democratic poop,
My cock is caught in your jingoistic coop.
Ban Dook Dom.

Glory Glory in your illusive story,
My truth is treason, your gore is glory.


BOLL WEEVIL

(Dedicated to Shri Krishna Kalamb, a farmer poet who committed suicide in Vidharbha.)

I am a boll weevil,
Unknown,
To the cruelty of the pitcher plant,
Going towards it,
Hypnotized,
To find some relief,
From hunger, and surrounding death.

Progressing,
To fall in the pitfall trap,
Smelling like cotton.

I have reached its periphery,
And now have entered the pitfall,
The sides are slippery,
I cannot climb back.

My death,
They say,
Is necessary,
For the growth,
Of the pitcher plant.

I cannot sense anything now,
Numb,
With a bloodless body,
Remembering my happy days,
Unwillingly I surrender myself,
My death, is inevitable.