Hope-
For them hope
is a rubber tyre
around their necks
Someone will douse kerosene
and strike a match
Dear Dr. Singh, how long does it take
for rubber to burn fully?
Does it burn slower than a human body?
Le fils de madame Locarno a écrit un roman.
Mon dieux dite-elle, à tous ceux qui l’interpellent
Cette vie fructueuse à Sas Fé, là, où les montagnes
Hérissent le dos un contre l’autre
Une énorme famille qui somnole
Depuis longtemps.
Ce livre
Bat les records, bouscule,
Ce village pas loin d’où
Hannibal a su prendre le chemin
Du col, brilliant exploit
Avec ses elephants trompetant la
Victoire.
Hannibal, superb général
Inspire la loyauté des gaullois
Et les tribus affligé par la
Puissance de Rome, un meneur
Charitable et juste.
Ce récit, l’offrande du jeune Locarno
Offre-t-il l’invasion de mots féconde,
L’exemple à suivre dans un monde
Pris en otage par un méfiance profonde?
Mais non, ça traite de drogue
Sexe, média, la mafia, une allusion
Au Pape sécurisé par les Cents Suisses
Et par le bord, toutes sortes de crapules,
De gonsesses, de pirates modernes
Rendu propres avec leur lavage d’argent,
Son oeuvre, une gloire qui tremble
(mais chic alors pour les redevances!)
Pas de 13ième chapitre où tout s’explique
De remors obscures, les abcès d’une garniture
Littéraire, un regard au moins vigilant
Ce qui pourait rendre intéressant, les yeux
Croches, un language moche, de gens
Qui fabriquent un pétrin orgueilleux.
C’est une bonne poire
Oui, cette mère, sa lecture à faire, plus
Excitant, son revu de Paris Match et les
Les manchettes qui sonnent l’alarme,
Un glas d’église morne, cette maman
Veuve depuis vingt ans se borne à répandre
La gazette du village.
S’avance avec son chariot de commission
Roues qui grinçent dans la rue, où les moineaux
Chippent des miettes sur des terraces ouvertes,
Sa canne qui bat le rythme d’un aveugle
Pourtant, Madame Locarno se porte très bien.
The woodcutter’s daughter was not the one saved when
he split open the wolf.
Hero to someone else,
heralded for his selfless deed, he wandered
away, seeking
greatness
and fame.
Crumbs eaten,
stones grown moss green
she practiced
new stories for the new father,
the dark haired,
browned eyed to his hazel,
silent to his singing,
sluggish to his dancing.
She stood at the edge of the wood,
cape in hand, a basket of
caribou bones,
howling for the wolf.
So poet, you think you’re a mystic?
With oars of words and boats of paper
you navigate the gentle waters
churning them this way and that
But deep waters run silent and
I wonder if your oars can reach
the depths that a tiny pebble does
But who am I to say,
for Laozi says it better
Those who know do not say,
those who say do not know.
Given it starts me reading,
Letters on a page open up with meaning,
With someone else’s words who was hoping,
To let others know what they were thinking.
My friends usually will be thumbing,
Might see how I’m trying to be living,
Through someone else’s thoughts that I have been reading,
Of paths that I have never taken.
In and out of boxes while my situations are changing,
A few will still remain with me brown and fading,
Memories often end up on other people’s shelves,
Covered in dust and
Forgotten.
Why do Jews have to be circumcised?
Christ was a Jew before the Christians arrived,
Yet Catholics tend to remain intact.
You can pray all day,
But you’ll never get your foreskin back.
Yes, I know about hygienic concerns.
While wandering through the desert
All that dust could create quite a crust,
But who has forty years to kill like that?
Then, Allah forbade mutilation,
But are He and Yaweh the same God?
I wonder what it must be like
To fuck with a severed penis.
~~~
Taken from K. Gandhar Chakravarty’s recently published book of poems entitled: Kolkata Dreams (2009)
Lost in the Land of Plenty
I live in a welfare hotel
and when the electricity
gets shut off again
in the room provided
by Homeless Services,
without the heater,
even with blankets,
it’s freezing cold.
I hurry to dress
so I won’t miss the bus
that will take me to school,
even though I hate it,
’cause they call me names
and make me sit in the back
with the other homeless kids.
But I’ll try to ignore
how the teacher treats us,
how the other kids treat us,
because I’ll be warm.
Bureaucratic Priorities
The mayor of New York proposed
a basic five-year action plan
to end chronic homelessness,
which so far has managed
to put more families on the street.
The city spends our tax money
while innocent children suffer
terrible horrors on the street,
exposed to crime and violence
and the city keeps counting,
instead of finding solutions
for children cruelly abandoned
by the richest city in the world.
The Counting of the Homeless
Instead of offering
sufficient services
to address the problems
of a specific group
removed from the normal haunts
of alienating society,
whether from dysfunction,
or dire calamity
such as fire, or loss of job,
the money expended
in counting the homeless
should be used
to provide shelter.
“The Noise/Silence of Lasting Peace” [after seeing Yoko Ono "Imagine" exhibit in the Musée des Beaux Arts de Montréal] @ 2009 by James Cockcroft
End wars by noise
of revolutionary
multitudes.
Enduring silence.
1.
At Checkpoint Charlie
customs huts
The death strip - scraped earth
:wildflowers.
Sepia postcard of the Brandenburg Gate.
Organized bus tour. A one-day visit.
2.
Windows are bricks instead of glass.
3.
A summer day, lapis-blue sky.
My husband buys a rucksack.
“These East Berliners look unhappy,” he says.
I remember, his leaving bruises.
The Mauer, the Wall, cuts through houses.
Ripped-up cobblestone.
4.
People are forbidden to wave
to family and friends.
5.
White crosses under an old elm.
A Strasse becomes a cul-de-sac:
from a steel viewing tower
one sees the street life.
Blank faces of passers-by.
6.
People break the Wall with hammers,
take home souvenirs. 1989.
7.
We are a family, divorced.
8.
A piece of Mauer still stands along the river,
one kilometre long. Dandelions, graffiti art.
Centre of the city under construction.
غزوة غزة
بأكتبلَك
من جوه حصار
بأكتبلَك من تحت جدار
كان يوم شايل سقف الدار
بأكتبلك من أرضي الحِبلى بالأحرار
بأسمي وبأسم الشهدا والثوار
… بأكتبلَك
… وفي حلقي مرار
***
غزوة غزة
غارسة في قلبي سيف من نار
جيش جرار
كل سلاحه جبن وعار
وشعبي الأعزل واقف صامد
وإنتوا بتختلقوا الأعذار
***
أنده لك
ألاقيك محتار
أسيادك ماسكينلك ذِلة
وإنتَ حمار
لا بتحسب إيه أخرة صمتك
ولا عارف مين اللي بياكلك
ولا بكره مين راح يحتلك
ما هو لازم حيجيلك الدور :
مرسوملنا كلنا إدوار
***
الأخت الكبرى
بايعة شرفها ، ويّا الغاز ، للسمسار
وولادها لو ولّعوا شمعة
أو قالوا بصوت عالي كلمتهم
العسكر يحرقوا دنيتهم :
أسوار جواها أسوار
***
غزوة غزة
شاهدة عليكوا ليوم الدين
مساكين
باصين لكن مش شايفيين
طول ما إنتوا في ليل الخوف مساجين
على فين رايحيين ما إنتوش عارفيين
***
غزة يا أخويا مش حتموت
ولا حتسلم
ولا تنهار
أقفل بابك ، سد ودانك
الّف الف حكاية خسيسة
مهما حتكدب
مهما حتهرب
حتماً برضه حيجي نهار
The Invasion of Gaza
Besieged
I write
From underneath my collapsed roof
I write
From my persistent land
I write
In my name
and for the fighters
and the martyrs
I write
Bitter …
I write
***
The invasion of Gaza
pierced my heart
with a poisoned spear:
Planes and bombs
Unarmed people
A world
that doesn’t see or hear
***
I call on you
You are confused
Clueless, manipulated, used
For you too they have a plan
but you can’t see your time is near
***
The invasion of Gaza
will scar you
to the end of days
You can’t move
and you can’t think
You’re stuck in fear
***
Gaza, my friend,
will not collapse
surrender
or die
Plug your ears
Close your eyes
Believe their lies
No matter how long
falsehood survives
the sun shall rise