Poem | Joy Goswami ( Translated by Ruma Chakravarti )

Easily Pleased

Photo Credits: Lee La

But we are easily pleased,

Why feel sad about it?

The days pass easily enough

With the bare necessities.

The days pass easily enough

Whether in sickness or in debt

Nightly the two of us sit

Brothers over a ganja pipe.

We cannot afford to shop all days

Other times we go overboard -

On my way home from the street

I buy cuttings of rose.

But where do I plant the damned things?

When will they ever flower?

All that will come sometime later

Let me first smoke my ganja pipe.

We really are easily pleased,

Why must we be sad about it?

Our days pass easily enough

Just with the bare necessities.

Sometimes even that is in doubt

We return late into the night;

As we eat our tempers flare

At least give us salt with cold rice we yell!

My anger gets the better of me

I try to beat it down,

Father and son, brothers in arms,

We raise hell throughout the hood.

What if we do break some rules?

After all we are but ordinary folk.

At least with this bland plate of rice

A pinch of salt would have been nice.

Poems| Karan Mujoo

Photo Credits: Lee La

Bukowski stares at me

Bukowski stares at me from the wall.
Scowling, growling, abusing
because I have sold out.

Good morning you fucking idiot.
Go force a shit and run to work he says,
hurling a bottle of beer at me.
I duck, as I have ducked my dreams,
for a pay cheque at the end of the month.

Writing on the weekend is the plan
of a thousand deluded writers around the world.
I think of Whitman wandering in green fields,
sleeping under trees in a drunken stupor,
I think of Hank scratching his balls,
stubbing a cigarette, and gambling.

They never waited for the weekend.
Why should you or I?


Love and smoke

They say
cigarettes
will kill you.
And I say,
so will love.

The world is
teeming,
bursting
at its seams
with people
in love.

So I would
rather watch
these dervishes
of smoke dance.

People love people.
I love white cylinders
of grey light,
that char lips
of lovers
and loners alike,
these silent
orange lighthouses,
that steer our lost souls
through lonely nights.

Poem | Brittany N. Krantz

The First Plunge

 

Photo Credits : Lee La

The First Plunge 

New neon suit stretched tightly across my torso,  
sticky hands gripping the ladder’s warm metal railing.
Sliding foot onto the ladder’s first step, 
heart feeling like it’s about to beat out of my chest. 

My seven-year-old body trembling, I climb the ladder 
to the unsteady rhythm of my intensifying pulse. 

First stepping onto the sandpaper-texture board, 
slowly beginning the descent outwards, 
like a ship’s prisoner about to walk the plank 
and plunge into the abysmal unknown.

Walk forward slowly, keeping eyes focused outward,
not once daring to look down.
Never. Look. Down.
Ever.

Finally meeting my final destination of the board’s edge, 
toes dangle over like ten tiny monkeys hanging on for dear life.

Breathing deeply, I inhale the the aroma of chlorine, inflatable rubber, and coconut oil,
the unofficial scent combination indicative of summer’s long-awaited arrival. 

So easy to turn back, to climb down the ladder,
and pretend I don’t care about jumping. 
No. Not this year, which is MY year to make the transition
from kiddie pool to cool kid,
from sissified to sophisticated,
from cowardly to courageous.

Fists tight-knees bent-resist urge to count-inhale—
My knees straighten and my feet leave the rough textured board.

Reverberations of the board bouncing against the metal springs
confirm the reality of my decision—to jump!  
Speeding downward like a bird with no wings,
my body zoomed straight for the water’s surface. 

PLISSSH!

Shattering the water’s smooth surface,
continuing the descent down,
wondering if my feet will meet the surface bottom
of the pool’s deepest depths. 

Tap. There it is! 
Pushing off the submerged concrete the instant it meets my feet,
body shoots upward towards the water’s surface, 
like a recoiled spring—or a torpedo! flying into action.

Arms and legs flailing clumsily in uncoordinated unison,
a combination of movement chaos, 
the water’s surface—the finish line.

AHHH!
Bursting through the water’s surface,
I exhale strongly, 
filling my lungs with the victorious mixture of oxygen—
and years of long-awaited triumph.    

Poems | Shikhar Goel

Painting by Chintu Das

1. मेरे जैसों के नाम

मार्क्स, देर्रिदा, कान्ट, बोलो,
चोमस्की, हार्वी, सेन, और फूको
बोलो तुम ये सारे नाम,
नाक पर चश्मा सेट करो तो
एक सिगरेट सुलगाओ जल्दी
देखो, अब तुम ज्ञानी हो!

छापो पेपर, किताब लिखो अब
भरी भरकम शब्दों वाली
अंग्रेज़ी भी फर्राटे से बोलो
ग़ालिब के कुछ शेर भी घोलो
देखो, अब तुम ज्ञानी हो!

नाइकी के जूते पहन कर
बुर्जुआ, बुर्जुआ जाप करो तुम
फैब इंडिया के कुर्ते में
अब क्रांति-क्रांति पाठ करो तुम
दारू के संग, चखने में
नेरुदा ओर फैज़ चबालो!
देखो अब तुम ज्ञानी हो.

देखो अब तुम ज्ञानी हो,
देखो अब तुम ज्ञानी हो,
देखो अब तुम ज्ञानी हो!
क्या सच में?



2.  आमन्त्रण पत्र

कटुवे, पाकिस्तानी,
चूड़े-चमार, भंगी
रंडी, रखैल
अबे ओये छक्के!


मैं कोशिश करूँगा,आप सभों के लिए
कविता में बचा सकूँ,
थोड़ी सी ज़मीन,
मुट्ठी भर आकाश
और ढेर सी आज़ादी.
आपका, मेरी नज़्मों में, स्वागत है!