"bangalore" poems
Against the thick black curtain on horizon
of still, gigantic cumulus cloud formation
three flitting army helicopters deftly display
a shadow play on jolly life of dragonflies,
I am compelled to think, as I drive past this
along the road skirting Bangalore garrison
Feb 25, 2016
Feb 25, 2016 at 10:59 AM UTC
Cricket is the only game which lures me so much;
And then engrosses me so much.
That craze would never drive out of me…
My inspiration was ‘Yuvraj Singh’,
Only then I arose to identify that King.
Once Yuvi’s record of six sixes in six *****
The firmament was incredible for certain minutes:
That was the first time I witnessed cricket,
And India’s triumph provided me a mind-blowing buzz to watch cricket,
Nevertheless continuing with ***** and wickets.
I would turn crazy when Indian cricketers approach the ground,
And that would certainly not halt lest they are made proud.
This T20 shadowed by IPL,
Made me to by stand that awe-inspiring sport.
Chennai Super Kings-my favorite,
Followed by Royal Challenges Bangalore …
And lots more hilarious teams and cricketers.
When Chris Gayle approaches…
Tsunami warning must be lifted and “Gayle” (gale) warning must be given!
That’s how cricket relocates…
Most matches concluding in the closing over
And some others in the finishing ball…
The most exhilarating sport
Read more →and the format-
IPL is all fun for me…
With cheer leaders and the draped studio;
With cameras and videos
And at last the much awaited IPL trophy-
Cricket is all that it needs!!!
Jan 6, 2013
Jan 6, 2013 at 12:43 AM UTC
My friends a witch doctor
He wants to grab from within
Yes, he is a witch doctor
He is a horrible beast
And when you feed the witch doctor
You give plenty of yeast
Oh yeah dude you are the coolest dude I ever saw
You are the witch doctor
From Bangalore
You see the witch doctor
He’ll steal food off your plate
Yes that witch doctor
He doesn’t wanna be your mate
He is a witch doctor
Which will grab from within
You see he is a bad witch doctor
We need to lock him up
Oh yeah dudes swing your hips
And party party party real ****** hard
Then the witch doctor
Will move to Australia
To show us you can really party
Without alcohol
But Australians won’t listen mate they need their alcohol
And that is the way of this
Crazy mixed up world
With the witch doctor
Being the target by police
But his powers make the police
Say just this
The witch doctor is too powerful
Nobody will catch him, no
Then the witch, who is the witch doctors wife
She told him to stop his little prank
The witch doctor said
No I will never stop oh no
So the witch cast a spell to make the witch doctor more loving
Then the witch doctor
Went to the party
He really enjoyed himself there
There was no need for evil
The witch and the witch doctor
Lived happily ever after
And they did
Aug 19, 2018
Aug 19, 2018 at 12:12 AM UTC
Lush mango groves
where the musky scent of mango blooms
once wafted making the
bulbuls sing in ecstasy
from morning till sundown
are reborn as gated communities,
where grim seriousness parade.
In sun drenched vineyards,
shadows of dreams,
wanting to dress up as IT parks, spread.
Bangalore barters its medley of colors and smells
for prosperity in terms of greenbacks,
as people learn to be 'smart' players,
and more and more get 'Bangalored'*
from around the world.
Corn fields that danced to the tunes
of the songs of toiling farmers
go missing within days.
To match with the new mood,
nature, in this green paradise, till not so long ago
shamelessly wears the unnatural with style.
Mar 4, 2013
Mar 4, 2013 at 10:09 AM UTC
I swallowed her and now
She lives inside me or I live
Through her, we are alive.
I’m her friend, her teenage
And fantasies, a sixty year old-
Hair and books she ever read
Long distance phone calls
And delight matched our
Love for Sujata, Mr And Mrs Iyer
And I sat on her couch on my
Despised vacations sketching
Letters to Milena, Quabbani
And we spoke of her brothers,
Generations and cafes I went.
I’m Delhi, Bangalore and
Endless conversations-
She never met and she’s my
Lost Malayalam, postcards and
A world so familiar, a childhood.
Hold your breath and relax
I’m going to stay and listen
Till you are out of stories and
I repeat, remind and you smile.
I’ll get you melodies and 60s
Harold Robbins and Nutan,
Your weirdness and aloofness.
You don’t grow old with me
I’ll live, I promise as your fonts
Visit places you walked and
Write to you all, deep- blue
Letters, deep- blue-letters.
You are my first high-heels
Strawberry fields and music system
I’ll recite you a love story
Picture him as our classic heroes
And giggle as girls sixteen and
Seventeen. You swallowed me
And I live through you, we’re alive.
Oct 15, 2015
Oct 15, 2015 at 12:25 PM UTC
check it out check it out
chic chicky boom chicky boom chic chic
it's da state of this here disunion
this here bangalore torpedo seeks yer minefields
this here suffering hero
n
crows about strafes
multitudes peripherally
****** blind prophets
exclaim
chic chicky boom chicky boom chic chic
it's nothing but beginning
of beginning & z end of approximation
time's sweet angry subluxation
universal caving in on U & U
chic chicky boom chicky boom chic chic
when was z last time U really loved
i mean really really really loved
ha i could only hold to z imagination
z skeleton z allegory z myth
'cause everything slides & falls
screams careens outta control
chic chicky boom chicky boom chic chic
she brought in rrrrevolution.evolution.now
is z caustic effervescence of her wit
eroding my sandy castle of deceit?
ha and repeat ha
chic chicky boom chicky boom chic chic
forgive-me-notes are written high
on z forehead of my despair
a cursive flowing interdiction
malediction cruxifiction err-u-diction
en-passant
in each pyrotechnic moment when we don't see I-to-I
on anything relevant to what we once hoped was us
but we continue dance dance dance
perseveration aberration indiscretion cha-cha-cha
chic chicky boom chicky boom chic chic
she said *** is z engine of z world
like engine like world like ***
like like like
could say no more
oh it's tiresome to go on
describing that chimeric uniting
flesh-to-flesh-in-flesh eliding
we all are guilty of
do not end a line with a preposition such as
that or a proposition such as this:
given angle a prove that old triangle theorem
two simultaneous loves don't make a right
cherchez les angles les anglais la bon mot
ya know
chic chicky boom chicky boom chic chic
when i die please bury me upside down
prone to z ground making dead love to earth ya kno
while the centuries lie down next to me
chic chicky boom chicky boom chic chic
chic chicky boom chicky boom chic chic
chic chicky boom chicky boom chic chic
chic!
chic!
Jan 24, 2010
Jan 24, 2010 at 3:14 PM UTC
Love was the fragrance of every flower
in this city, of celebrated gardens,
not long before,
Why i sit here, nursing my uneasiness
in this bus with out a destination board,
I don't really know,
all I hope is this:
my belief that it would take me to
it's last stop- love- would not fail,
Once there ,I know,
my redemption would be easier.
I don't see any one bound
to that destination,
not even one whose face i recognize,
night has no language, like a dumb man
i have to be contented with signs,
in this overly lit long, red bus, too sleek
for everyone here to feel happy about,
i feel the shock of change, from every side,
The city is busy shedding its old skins
and its soul, the villager and his words
that spoke of rain, crops of corn and harsh summer,
almost in a poetic vein, is alien now,
they aren't invited here anymore,
sulking, loitering around a bit, they have left, before sun down.
We are racing towards deadlines,
roads everywhere are blocked, broken, changed beyond
recognition, one's own street, needs introduction
work is in progress even at midnight,
new flyovers, elevated roads, sky scrappers
you easily lose count, and crawl through a maze,
all for a make over, to a global city of electronics,
from a sleepy town, embracing villages
to somewhere, the world feels flat, in an illusory grandeur.
Trees died horrible deaths,
a loveless and forlone look takes over, even on young faces
the sparrows, disappear, no one knows where
they have gone, bees and butterflies,
what would be their fate, studies are on.
A lady in the front seat
gets jittery, she is not sure where she goes,
the driver doesn't pay attention,
there is none to reassure,
we are on the move, fast too.
I was looking for Mahatma Gandhi Road, but the signs
are all gone, hope, those would be back pretty soon,
but would love come back?
OOO
Apr 11, 2012
Apr 11, 2012 at 8:03 AM UTC
The ancient banyan tree is huge, its parallel trunks,
Go across , spiral out, spread branches,
Sheltering birds; doves or eagles, it doesn't bother.
Above that a kite lost mid way on its pleasure flight aimlessly circles.
A grey half moon tries to remain inconspicuous in the day light.
A single engine Cessna sky hawk from Bangalore flying club,
Laboriously crawl across the sky like an overeaten caterpillar.
He remains,
Oblivious of the world around, and its many preoccupations.
Within a craggy nook created by the irregular stem of the banyan,
The old man sits like an idol, totally alien to the world, that is in its Nataraja's dance*
A long, grey, shaggy beard; serene radiant face,
Stunning any one, looking at him with the contentment blooms there, a radiant flower.
His rags for long time has not seen water, its obvious,
A soiled turban around his head is tightly tied, yet he looks regal.
He is silence personified, has no needs, it seems.
He breathes freedom day and night, no dependency on others,
Sounds, discordant and confusing, from the nearby road, fails even to touch him,
The dust wind that circles around, only creates a halo for him.
A plastic bag full of stuff, his worthless belongings, lie by his side, like a severed head.
An old news paper he holds, to shield him from the setting sun's attention.
On the third day I found out, he has friends.
Though there seems no need to speak, words are too precious to waste, isn't it what he implies?
A dark, frail woman driving back her buffalo and its calf after grazing in the fields,
Stops in front of him smiling, he smiles back; for the first time I saw a smile speaking to another.
A silent exchange of feelings, I could experience, even in nature, since then. An awakening he brought.
Every time I watch him, with an open mind, the contentment I see, recites wordless poems
May 13, 2013
May 13, 2013 at 10:33 AM UTC
Uncomfortably on one shoe,
this Cinderella of Bangalore,
stood in front of "Infinity mall"
(No prince could miss a girl here)
peering in to every funky car,
from the wee hours.
With the other shoe in hand
for easy identification, (how smart!)
her lovelorn prince, fell asleep
at the precise time
when his taxi passed her.
Mar 1, 2013
Mar 1, 2013 at 12:01 AM UTC
Flower beds in every nook
was Bangalore's delight
for long long years,
even before the time
Winston Churchill lived there
as a young British soldier.
Salubrious climate turned it then
in to a pensioner's paradise,
full of quiet tree lined streets.
The one time cool "Garden city"
one finds now with a new itch,
in its mad rush to get hitched
with the so called" flat world"
every which way possible,
it kills the symphony of colors,
both willingly and otherwise;
trees fall, monstrous flyovers rise,
technological behemoths,
which fast become dinosaurs
as economic down turn hits hard,
stand daunting us, adding green house gases
now, its all kitsch and concrete **** everywhere.
May 12, 2013
May 12, 2013 at 8:41 AM UTC
eight wickets
eight wickets
he did so well score
on the pitch at Bangalore
he spun the ball
he spun the ball
in the first session of play
over after over toiling away
his efforts were fab
his efforts were fab
bamboozling the batsmen
with a seaming flight of hem
not since Warne
not since Warne
had such a display been seen
on the oval's twenty two yard sheen
a magic spell
a magic spell
Lyon's spinning technique
was truly magnifique
Mar 4, 2017
Mar 4, 2017 at 11:15 PM UTC
The sun, slanting westwards
chases me with competitive spirit;
speeding through, interstate highway
from Hyderabad to Bangalore,
long stretches I see, are waterless seabeds
reminds the oceanic origin of all
sense of time vanishes, I am an unknown
creature of the sea, an explorer of underwater geology.
Like life, it's a winding long drive
lonely too, like one often finds, oneself in spite of many loves,
just incessant voices that soon lose meaning.
Speaking to myself, quietly, alone
I realize this, calmly, in life-
one is alone in many ways .
How curious,
the sun, my co-traveller,
caught sight of me,
and graciously gives me
a smile of recognition,
still continues the chase playfully,
from my right,
I like his verve
he too finds fun in our run.
He becomes red all over,
decides to set in the west
he signals,
above Nandi Hills
his spectacular farewell show
makes me slow down and watch.
At the height of the display, he vanishes
like a magician, taking every drop of light with him,
leaving me to find my way
through darkness, that I have to dispel myself.
Oct 4, 2013
Oct 4, 2013 at 1:50 PM UTC
It Was A New Delhi To Bangalore Flight In 1994
I Was Aged Three Years & 7 Months At The Time
We Did Start From Karnal For New Delhi At 1400
Mom Feared It That We Might Miss Our Flight
I Did Not Say Anything As I Knew Not Why So...
Anyways, We Reached IGI Airport In New Delhi
Here We Checked-In At The Domestic Terminus
Remember The Security Folks Tickling My Body
Maa Disappeared Into A Screen - Wooden Frame
I Looked Silently At The Smiling Security Man...
Then We Had To Cross Over In The Boarding Area
I Was Not Allowing My Young Eyes To Rest At All
Closely Following My Mum As Dad Was Not Here
Then Just As We Mounted The Taxiing Bus, I Said Aloud,
**"I Am Not Here For The Bus!!!**
Where's The Flight?"
Such was my childhood.
Jun 10, 2013
Jun 10, 2013 at 1:43 PM UTC
Snaking through the cities roads into highways
that connect people from all suburbs
to a central spinal cord of lanes that
take you up and away from slum to slum.
The upmarket stores are full of bright lights
and little else that is elegant
its a cosmetic upbringing, mirage that
rises over the city's mist and clogs up the minds
magic as it swerves and rustles up the
the energies of other super cities
where commerce and hard labour have
equally sculpted a life of crime and distance.
Watch out for the airport which swings
in between the mountain of rubble
and municipal mania and parthenium ****
what finds every possible nook and cranny
to manifest itself. The politicians mumble and jumble
their way through manifestos and gimmicks
that endorse themselves as saviours of greed.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.
Apr 1, 2014
Apr 1, 2014 at 4:05 PM UTC
The tourists mill about on weary feet,
seeming clueless of their final destination.
It appears, at least, they've had enough to eat,
as their clothes can barely cope with new inflation.
I wait, impatient, for the street to clear.
I resist the urge to honk my horn or more.
These beefy bon- vivants from foreign shores
move like the sacred cows of Bangalore!
Mar 7, 2013
Mar 7, 2013 at 7:01 AM UTC
As I drive past, I spy, in the sky
above the air force station of Bangalore,
two vrooming fighter jets,
three hedge hopping choppers,
five flitting dragon flies in mirth beyond words,
a swallow in love, with his lady love in tow;
fly in formations-
creations of own convenience,
(except for the machines,
that strictly follow rules)
against the big, round, magenta sun,
getting prepared
to set behind the mountains.
Feb 27, 2013
Feb 27, 2013 at 6:50 AM UTC
It seems the battle now has passed me by.
I walk unhindered on the ****** beach.
I cannot hear the screams of shot and shell.
I am immune and quite beyond their reach.
Some men I knew deploy a Bangalore
And blow a hole in Hitler’s grand defense.
Machine guns sputter but I heed them not.
For me the battle has lost all suspense.
My kit and rifle are light upon my back.
My rage is spent; I lack the urge to ****
There are others who make up my lack
Here there’s blood in buckets to be spilled.
I meet a German, sitting on a rock.
His tunic bloodied there about his heart
He offers me a smoke and I accept,
Although I’ve heard that smoking isn’t smart..
We speak and somehow understand each other
As we watch our younger brothers play at war.
He apologized for his part in my ******
I assure him that I’m not the least bit sore.
He asks if I’ve brought coins for the boatman.
I fish through my pockets and come up with dimes
With images of Mercury on the obverse,
rods and Fasces on the other side.
Dec 23, 2011
Dec 23, 2011 at 10:22 PM UTC
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Sep 9, 2015
Sep 9, 2015 at 1:22 AM UTC
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Sep 4, 2015
Sep 4, 2015 at 2:10 AM UTC
When we were young, we went DYU in
Lipsticks and jumpsuits and gulped
Chamomile tea on table one, our hot spot.
Now that Eapen is here, I want to go
Back to those Bangalore days with my-
Ladies, diapers and a pair of baby socks.
Tim, time, time! Stop, stop, stop!
This is the moment, the moment from
Our yester imaginings, Eapen our baby drug
Let's get back to those hostel rooms,
Jumpsuits and lipsticks with 'the nucleus' on our shoulders.
Dec 11, 2016
Dec 11, 2016 at 8:29 AM UTC
No.
I don't refer only to our comfortable parental house in Bangalore,
But here I also mean my heart and my heartbeats are the percussionist's rhythm issuing out loud for you.
And I feel your feet shaking to it as you hold me in a tight embrace & it beats aloud rhythmically for you,
It's my heart which I mean here as the house ready-made for you,
Yes.
May 11, 2013
May 11, 2013 at 11:46 PM UTC
- on the prompt "Falling in Love (more than once)"
I thought about
this prompt you gave me.
A girl on a train,
I had fallen in love with,
Silhouette of her hair
border lining the darkness of eventide
towards Bangalore.
We met in a ground a year later,
no intermittent contact held,
like quantum-entangled electrons do,
dumbfounded how it'd happened.
And again on the road in Bangalore
three years later.
A direct line to the eye's sight,
first time, under a morning seeming streetlight.
A latch bolded in the color of the eyes,
I longed to deep dive in.
Words finding silence at the wrong time,
so they resorted to not all things
and happenings having reasons
and fear of consoling a needy
in a fear of an upside down going failure.
And like between life and death are only breaths,
the silence between the sentences
was filled with ours
and death by chocolate,
and thoughts of silences
of the other's mind, unheard of,
aware only of an unbeknownst wind
of familiarity of an unknown kind.
I had fallen in love multiple times,
which is to say I'd sifted through
the earth to the other side
and started rising, from it, in it.
Following down the gushes of time
sinking and rising sensations
of guilty pleasures in the chest, insinuating
that the thing of beauty is a joy forever
but only when not possessed.
*********
There's an old man, my mother's father
not loved by anyone, angry all the time
illogically unnecessarily hurting others,
drunk trashing long hair and glasses,
rusted in the smell of decay.
I make me fall in love with him,
again and again and again,
so that he knows he's not alone,
always.
Apr 10, 2017
Apr 10, 2017 at 6:25 AM UTC