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Devesh 5d
People are selfish,
even the mother who tend her son to take care of her

Greed is inevitable,
just like the old guy who steals money for family

Honestly is cuts like cruelty,
which made women reject hopeful man due to her lover

Betrayal is part of nature,
in which young bird is fling out of nest to fly carelessly

But,

We protect bonds,
even the son tends his mother, who sacrificed her life for him

We still let go of dignity,
just like the old guy who was beaten for feeding his family

We still seek truth,
which made grown boy find someone to accept his love

We still realize the importance of action,
in which young seagull catch fish with his flight

Thus we still hope for tomorrow in which we will live
Just started writing
East Land

April is the cruellest month,
Infalliably all the 12 months.
Traditionally demise, spritually feeble,
Materially firm and culturally parched.

Morning dark, night bright,
droughts, storms, muddle in monsoon.
Legendary roots got detached,
Forming a new trend of hybridism.

Subjects face anarchical tendencies,
Bones speak and stones still.
Folk got restored by alien melody,
Science replaced customs and values.

Everything in turmoil and chaos,
Occult mind and Orient body.
Nothing is constant in Orients,
But absurdity, not change.

Imitations work here on grand scale,
Respect to ancestors in small scale.
Men powerless, others meaningless,
Life is savage, absurd in nature.

Here nobody hears nobody,
Everybody hears nobody here.
Theories and reservation on screen,
Stucturalists, some, others in green.

Life hapless and listless,
Masses reveal gist in nothing.
Examples speak no definitions.
Writers speak only of imagination.

The sun comes and goes,
Lives come and go, dead and gone.
Genuine love a piligrimage,
Material love a bin drainage.

High rise in crime and sufferings,
Science, -isms, hunger, fashion, unemployment.
once served spritual messages to the world,
Awards in physics and chaste in metaphysics.

Eliot traverrsed with his barren land,
Sterilized his land at sheer Ganga.
Presently this land itself is dry,
Dry in culture, wet in cries.

Incarnations, 'DA DA DA' doesn't work here,
Demons and devils can do hell of heaven.
Two faces work in Orient Spritious Mundi,
One being progress and the other poverty.

Music should stop and dance start,
Days, centuries and ages should restart.
This art is impersonal, but tone personal,
Personal or impersonal, life is hellish.

Hopes are to the weakest and most degraded,
I've been born, and once is enough.
Westernization, Modernization, Globalization….

Thala Abhimanyu Kumar S
Dated: February 2011
Notes on East Land by Thala Abhimanyu Kumar S
Paragraph 1 – Introduction

Thala Abhimanyu Kumar S’s East Land is a powerful poem that deliberately responds to T. S. Eliot’s The Waste Land. Where Eliot turned his attention to the shattered cultural landscape of the West after the First World War, Abhimanyu shifts the focus to the Orient and reveals that the East, too, is suffering from a comparable decline. The poem is significant because it does not merely imitate Eliot but actively dialogues with him, questioning the assumed spiritual superiority of the East that Eliot once looked to for renewal. Instead, Abhimanyu portrays an Eastern land that is equally barren, hybridized, and culturally confused.


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Paragraph 2 – Title and Allusion

The very title, East Land, positions the poem as a counterpart to The Waste Land. This signals that the poet is drawing on Eliot’s modernist tradition but also offering his own critique of the contemporary East. The poem’s opening line immediately echoes Eliot’s famous phrase, “April is the cruellest month”, but Abhimanyu expands it: “April is the cruellest month, infallibly all the 12 months.” This transformation is crucial. Eliot spoke of a single season of painful renewal, but Abhimanyu emphasizes that the crisis in the East is ongoing, unending, and stretches across the entire year. This establishes the poem’s bleak tone from the very beginning.


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Paragraph 3 – Themes of Decay and Absurdity

At its core, East Land is a lament for cultural decay. The poet notes how legendary roots have been detached, leaving society vulnerable to hybridism and imitation. What once gave the East its cultural strength has been eroded by modern influences. The poet also emphasizes the absurdity of modern life, where values are reversed and contradictions dominate. The paradox “Morning dark, night bright” captures the topsy-turvy condition of existence. The repeated statement “Here nobody hears nobody, / Everybody hears nobody here” exposes the breakdown of communication and meaning. For Abhimanyu, modern life is not just spiritually barren but absurd and directionless.


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Paragraph 4 – Tradition versus Modernity

A central theme of the poem is the conflict between tradition and modernity. Abhimanyu laments that science and technology, while materially firm, have displaced customs, traditions, and spirituality. He writes: “Science replaced customs and values.” The East, once a source of spiritual nourishment for the world, has now become a land dry of culture but wet in cries. The poet sees globalization and westernization as forces that have corroded ancestral practices. This tension between past and present is one of the strongest aspects of the poem, highlighting how modernization has led not to progress but to alienation and confusion.


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Paragraph 5 – Satire on Society

Unlike Eliot’s myth-laden poem, Abhimanyu’s style is satirical and direct. He critiques the realities of modern society, mentioning issues such as unemployment, crime, reservation, fashion, and imitation. The biting line “Imitations work here on grand scale, / Respect to ancestors in small scale” encapsulates his critique of hypocrisy. People are eager to imitate the West but neglect their own heritage. Through satire, the poet exposes the shallow values of contemporary life. His tone is less detached than Eliot’s and more personally involved, suggesting not only an observer but also a critic who feels the impact of this decline.


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Paragraph 6 – Style and Technique

The style of East Land is free verse with no fixed rhyme or rhythm, which aligns it with modernist and postmodernist traditions. However, unlike Eliot’s fragmented structure, Abhimanyu opts for a plain and direct diction. His use of repetition (“Here nobody hears nobody”), paradox (“Morning dark, night bright”), and irony gives the poem its satirical edge. He employs allusion not just to Eliot but also to cultural markers like the Upanishads and Indian traditions, though often to show how they have lost their effectiveness in the present world. The language is deliberately unpolished at times, reflecting the rawness of his critique.


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Paragraph 7 – The Spiritual Dimension

A striking aspect of the poem is its treatment of spirituality. Eliot ended The Waste Land with hope in the Upanishadic wisdom of “DA DA DA” (Datta, Dayadhvam, Damyata) and the peace mantra “Shantih, shantih, shantih.” Abhimanyu, however, dismisses this possibility outright. He writes: “Incarnations, ‘DA DA DA’ doesn’t work here.” This is a powerful reversal of Eliot’s conclusion. For Abhimanyu, even the spiritual remedies once admired by Eliot have failed in the contemporary East. The Orient is no longer a land of salvation but a site of confusion, poverty, and absurdity. This radical position intensifies the despair of the poem.


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Paragraph 8 – Tone of Despair

Throughout the poem, the tone is highly critical and deeply pessimistic. While Eliot’s poem, despite its bleakness, holds out a sliver of hope in spirituality, Abhimanyu leaves the reader with no such consolation. His conclusion, “I’ve been born, and once is enough,” is a declaration of exhaustion with life itself. The voice is weary, disillusioned, and resigned to the futility of existence. The harsh satire, the repeated emphasis on imitation and absurdity, and the rejection of both traditional and modern values make the poem a work of profound despair. Life, as presented in East Land, is “hellish” and meaningless.


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Paragraph 9 – Comparison with Eliot

The poem cannot be understood in isolation from Eliot’s The Waste Land. Both works deal with barrenness, cultural decay, and spiritual emptiness. Eliot mourned the collapse of Western civilization and sought renewal in the East. Abhimanyu mourns the collapse of the East itself and denies even the possibility of salvation through spiritual wisdom. Where Eliot used myth, allusion, and fragmented voices to portray a shattered culture, Abhimanyu uses satire, plain language, and direct critique. The two poems mirror each other, but East Land functions as a corrective: it shows that the East is not a source of healing but is equally caught in the absurdities of modern life.


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Paragraph 10 – Conclusion

In conclusion, East Land is a significant poem because it situates the East within the same condition of cultural and spiritual desolation that Eliot identified in the West. Abhimanyu’s voice is not merely imitative but resistant: he challenges Eliot’s vision of the Orient as a land of wisdom and shows that it has itself become barren. The poem stands as a satire on modernity, a lament for lost traditions, and a cry of despair at the futility of existence. Through its allusions, paradoxes, and raw critique, East Land becomes a modern Oriental counterpart to The Waste Land, reminding readers that no culture—East or West—can escape the corrosive forces of modern absurdity.


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Devesh Sep 25
Why was I born with lesser love unlike those who were born with same flesh as me for which I sob
Why was I born, to be hated for something I can't control but for others it's like they are destined to loved for
The belief to be lived out of no obsession is gotten buried into tatrus which doesn't open for liars
The duck that seeked big wings to make him touch the sky is drowning in pond of deep despair in which he lo longer vow
The roach that helped other to cleanse their guilt is now killed for being filthy which till his last breath couldn't seem to know
The motherly earth which is full of unjust still believes in fakes smiles and hope for love and kindness that will everyone desire
I guess I will never know the  unfair reason to for which I was born but one that is certain that child that had giggle of love now crys every time
First poem
Brumous Aug 11
Oh, good Lord.
Were you borne of love or was woven to a word?
I believe that a choir only have sung hymns — in your name, re-enacting kindness through loud utters of loving cruelty.

Because if love was found in the womb of a human heart, I wouldn't see a false God in my mother's womb.

However,
It is not you who sing the utters.
It is not them who are caged in a web made of purposeful mistranslation.
So, I hold no malice for you.

For you have not a mouth, yet — they feed you the receipt of words.
And when the time is done,
The fault will be yours,
A synopsis of death
And hurtful
Words.

For
Someone
Nearly fictional,
Have you no shame?
Because there is no beauty,
inflicting the creation of man,
In such intricate world.
Not against any good philosophy -
But religion is disgusting.

What's it yous worship anyway?
Superstition - nonsense.

Thinly veiled is your philosophy;
Dogma about me, me, me, me!

Proudly wearin' your mark of beasts.

This the symbol, crucifix;
Nailed up "our" "prophet," we did!

This is the ritual, wine & bread it is;
Cannibal feast of "blood & body."

This the symbolism, con𝘧𝘶𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯;
Reductionism from philosophies stolen.

This the comedy, tragedy;
Bastardizations from destruction & butcheries.

Like orphan children what livin' off charity;
What's me mother's name? Who's my daddy?

Eschewing everything
Cause you refuse to see, nor to hear.

You worship only yourselves;
This that your balderdash?
Nay. You are your own blasphemies!

There's your "divine" "comedy."

Joke's on you lot
For not just havin' "forgot,"
But for stealin'
And sayin' yous didn't.

Crimes enough
To fill sheets yous call scripture.

No such miracles
For those believers.
Those who worship, only worship nothing -
They will be outside of everything,
"Existing" as nothing.
Commoners' indignant?
Youth disinherited?
Ha. Nay.

Intellectuals disrespected.
Visionaries neglected.
Aye.

Yous who don't learn,
Refusin' to see eye-to-eye.
You slight genius, Truth.
Ay;

Afraid to even say hi -
Much less engage in honest, forthright conversation.
Rely on your superstitious,
Your hope is to pray
For ignorance like arrogance be your prey.

Lambs what be foul predators
Fat on the blood of their own ewes.
Singin',

"We know not what we do!
We know not what we do!"

Yet, you do so willfully.

Soon-to-be-nothings;
Absence, as nothingness, will be your eternity.

For the unworthy are rejected, universally.
Oh right. I forgot.
There's actually ******* out there
Who are serious
About their homophobia.
About hate of
Consenual relations
Between any grown individuals
Which doesn't conform
To their perspective of love.
Righteous love.
Fanatic heterosexuals.
Ay, I can't knock women.
Obviously,
There's so much more
To loving a partner.
So much more
To a loving partner.
The life you build together,
What you do with it.
But let's hone in
On dictating individuality
And harming individual rights.

Oh right. I forgot.
There's this thing
Called the constitution.
Oh right. I forgot.
There's these things
Called amendments.

Silly me,
I guess I was on
A personal "freak."
Silly me,
I guess I waged
A personal "streak."

Oh right. I forgot.
There's this thing
Called proper interpretation.
Oh right. I forgot.
There's these things
Called existing judgements.

Ah, ****!
I guess I'm against
State & church seperation.
Ah, shucks!
I guess I'm for
Totalitarian fascism.
But, but, you can't have state & church in fascist societies!
But, but, you can't have dissenting opinions in totalitarian systems!
One might call the leading sentiments today feudal in nature and/or completely autocratic.
Bello.
Non ** idea del perché.
Ma è bello questo paesaggio.

Grazie, cittadella in riposo.
Grazie, cielo puro e ammaliante.
Grazie, finestra cara,
che mi hai dato la possibilità
di vedere questo invisibile spettacolo.

Case semplici, piante non molto alte, alcune secche,
come in una terra all’industria
del necessario e il minimo per il buono.

Luce di lampioni
che illumina disordinata le strade,
come se il panico diurno fosse
congelato nel tempo dalla luce.
Eppure, anche nella pace,
l’uomo lo trascina con sé.

Tralicci che tagliano un cielo
senza nuvole e senza stelle,
non degno di essere amato dagli urbani,
che cercano solo il bello canonico,
antico, sterile.

Ma fortemente illuminato dalle città, il cielo,
che lo uccidono per convenienza.
E noi, sordi,
nemmeno ne udiamo il grido.

E poi, laggiù in fondo,
oltre l’autostrada,
altri grandi lampioni.
Pagane colonne d’Ercole,
Ignorate per voler del nostro
antropocentrismo,
lasciate a sbiadire
sul fondale.

Tutto nel silenzio di un istante
che non si apprezza più,
perché è memoria lontana
il tempo da perdere.


Non è nulla di che, a pensarci.
Eppure mi affascina.
La prima volta che, forse,
e dico solo forse,
trovo la magia nell’ordinario.

Forse ora capisco i grandi scrittori.
Forse la capirò meglio anch’io,
se davvero c’è magia.

Comunque,
so solo che questa visione è ferma,
vuota, angosciante per certi versi,
disperata,
morta.

Mi fa paura.

Ma, nonostante ciò,
mi fa stare bene.
E ne sono grato.

Grazie, cittaccia assassina.
Grazie, falso cielo ormai defunto.
Grazie, finestra svelatrice,
che mi hai permesso di vedere
questo melodrammatico spettacolo.

///

Beautiful.
I have no idea why.
But this landscape is beautiful.

Thank you, citadel in repose.
Thank you, pure and enchanting sky.
Thank you, dear window,
that you gave me the chance
to see this invisible spectacle.

Simple houses, plants not very tall, some dry,
as in a land of industry
of the necessary and the minimum for the good.

Light of street lamps
that illuminates the streets in a disorderly way,
as if the daytime panic was
frozen in time by the light.
And yet, even in peace,
man drags it with him.

Pylons that cut a sky
without clouds and without stars,
not worthy of being loved by urbanites,
who seek only the canonical beauty,
ancient, sterile.

But strongly illuminated by cities, the sky,
that **** it for convenience.
And we, deaf,
do not even hear its cry.

And then, down there,
beyond the highway,
other large streetlights.
Pagan Pillars of Hercules,
Ignored by the will of our
anthropocentrism,
left to fade
on the seabed.

All in the silence of a moment
that is no longer appreciated,
because it is a distant memory
the time to waste.

It is nothing special, if you think about it.
And yet it fascinates me.
The first time that, perhaps,
and I say only perhaps,
I find magic in the ordinary.

Perhaps now I understand the great writers.
Perhaps I will understand it better too,
if there really is magic.

In any case,
I only know that this vision is still,
empty, distressing in some ways,
desperate,
dead.

It scares me.

But, despite this,
it makes me feel good.
And I am grateful for it.

Thank you, murderous city.
Thank you, false sky now defunct.
Thank you, revealing window,
that allowed me to see
this melodramatic spectacle.
When the view talks
Look, I smashed them all together!
Look, I tore it all to tatters!
Look, I sewed it all back together!

Look, I wasn't familiar with the formula.
Look, I didn't understand the directions.
Look, I lost the thread all connecting.

Look, look!
Look, I even changed interpretations!

To listen to all the stupid rambles!

Look, I've got a narrative!

To ignore every answer!
Dianali Mar 15
I’m stuck in my bedroom.
There’s a whole in the wall.
That’s figurative speech,
Of course.
The wall is my heart.
I’m watching another show.
It’s about the life of some girls—
I’m trying so desperately to relate.
After some episodes, I finally succeed.
Somehow I make this about me too.
Now I’m imagining how my own life
Would play out for the masses.
Would I be a fan favourite?
Would he be the villain?
Would I be?

I stop.
I REALIZE—
I’m not that interesting.

Just perfectly,
randomly,
average,

             me.
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