Written by
John Matthew |
You hide your face in shame,
But I can see your private parts,
Have you no contrition,
To expose yourself, shamelessly, thus?
Tell me what does it feel,
To be watched while you strain?
Is that why you hang your head in shame;
Has all embarrassment left you?
I know it’s hard; you need your money,
But couldn’t you put the money —
You spend on spirits and tobacco,
To use that public facility on the street corner?
Is it communion with nature you seek?
Or the pleasure of shocking,
Young children, and pubescent girls?
Your revenge, your wretchedness!
If it’s your laziness, unforgivable indolence,
And reluctance to pay Rupee two,
And wash with dignity in that public facility,
Then bury your face, wretch, and die in shame.
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Written by
John Matthew |
You will realize this wisdom,
When you are my age, and experience,
Gained from being in vexing situations,
Yet, being out of it.
You do the same,
There is a joy in detachment,
Forsaking instant pleasures, pains,
For things deeper and enduring.
Don’t be a slave to the work,
Of smart slave-drivers in cubicles,
Instead explore the works of men,
Who have experienced the truths,
And distilled in their words, wisdoms,
Which may grate your ears now.
Like me, don’t be prey to sudden,
Rushes of anger that comes over cables,
And with emails and posts demolish,
Without thinking of consequences -
I have done that and am living to regret.
Don’t drink bottled and sealed lifestyles,
Its sugar, water and carbon dioxide,
Will dither you, disorient you, and sap you,
And don’t eat fast food with loose change,
They will suck you into their assembly line.
Lastly do not try to see with closed eyes,
And hear with deaf ears, keep them open.
The music and rhythm can corrupt,
And make sinning seem so tempting.
The age of innocence, son, is gone,
Every man is a mercenary army.
If you follow this advise, son,
When you are mature and wise as me,
You will say, one day, “Thank you Papa,
For your words of advice, wisdom,
To my children, too, I will pass this wisdom.
”
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Written by
John Matthew |
May be the whole thing was a dream,
Pinched myself awake this morn,
To check if you are there, virtually,
And felt your sudden absence online!
Be sure you will always exist,
In a special place in my heart,
Your smile in pixels is so sweet,
But, no, you are too good to be true!
Where are you? Do you exist?
Do you still inhabit Internet protocols?
And virtual chats and emoticons
That in joyous moments I watched.
Now that you are gone; are you
Among your charmed admirers?
I wish you well, I will miss you,
May you be ever happy and smiling!
Distances and togetherness,
Opposites, can’t networks cross,
I could never bridge the distances
Of your sweet kindness.
Someday, if you feel betrayed,
And, as weepy as a monsoon cloud,
Remember this friend who still cares,
And felt fulfilled by your brief warmth.
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Written by
John Matthew |
White, pristine, unblemished
They say it is not a color
I love white mists, clouds
Lingering on blue mountains.
White, no shades
No off white, cream
Pure as snow on shimmering peaks
Is my favorite sight.
Nurses, priests, politicians
Are bound, chained to white
White nebulous clouds
evoke deep nostalgic thoughts.
They swaddled my father in white
As he lay in the black coffin
His best shirt was white
His loin cloth was white.
The paper I write is white
White is holy, pure
They say light is white
Because it combines all colors.
So white is the mother of all colors
The churning of all yellow, blue, green
Colors sacrifice their egos
To the eternal white.
They say they are "white"
The purest of all races
I think they aren't white
But pink, beige and red.
Why can't colors of people
Merge and become white
Would people called "white"
Allow their color to merge?
Is white a color?
The matriarch of all colors
The fountain of all extent colors
Yes, king white reigns supreme!
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Written by
John Matthew |
He hangs on dangling handholds
As the train sways and careens
Endless nondescript buildings unfold
Their secrets as the tired warrior returns.
The day is over the night falls
Thickly through the barricaded windows
The man’s sleepy head lolls
On his shoulder in a dream disturbed.
The days are a hard white collar brawl
The sleepless night stretches ahead
There’s no space for a fly to crawl
The morning paper is still unread.
You who sleep standing
Don’t drool on his shirt
It will cost him a lot of spending
If you pour on him all your dirt.
Plastic bags, umbrellas, Tiffin
The rack is full and the seats overflow
What is that smell Peter Griffin?
Is it the Sewri sewers overflowing?
Beware of pickers of pockets
Who surround and slash with knife
Careful of your arm’s sockets
Lest they dislocate and misery make life.
Welcome to Bombay’s bustling trains
Hold on fast as if you are insane!
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Written by
John Matthew |
Resolutions I have made,
Kept, I have none,
Why do I have to make,
Resolutions anymore?
I pause through endless time,
For this year to pass,
And the lights of celebration to die,
On this New Year day.
Remember those magical days,
When the promise of togetherness,
Held us together, tentatively,
Alas! No more!
Years just flow by,
As water beneath bridges,
Gathering speed towards,
The great sea of immortality.
There you and I,
Will rest our weary heads,
On the silken bed,
Of our broken promises.
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Written by
John Matthew |
It’s akin to visiting my foster mother, today,
That I am returning to you, mother city, after twenty years,
I look at your broad, bereft blood-stained streets, mater,
Through which emperors, prime ministers cavalcaded,
In victory and defeat, through gates and triumphal arches,
That murmur of the pains of your rape and impregnation.
The sudden shock of your poverty upsets me,
It is evident in the desperation of the cycle-rickshaw puller,
His eyes intent on the ground, standing on his pedals,
He pulls his woes, as if there is no halcyon tomorrows.
Your grimy streets are dusty, high walled, impenetrable,
As if you wish to guard the gory secrets within.
Is this where histories, dynasties were erected, to fall?
A dynasty now rules by proxy the city of the great Akbar,
And a fratricide of a politician now fills you with awe,
When you are the city of kingly fratricides and parricides.
Remember how Dara Shukoh was marched and beheaded,
In your own street of Chandni Chowk, of not long ago?
The secrets of your devious present and past mingle,
Where now stand glitzy malls, I know, blood had flowed,
In your dark corners soldiers, spies, princes plotted to kill,
You witnessed the dethroning of emperor Shah Jehan,
And the ascendance of his wily progeny, Aurangazeb,
And you covered your face in the folds of your veil.
Yet, now, mother city, your tears are dry, your sobs silent,
Slowly you die, spent and ravaged by your many lovers.
Though it is kitsch melodies that you hum today, you were,
Serenaded by Tansen, and Amir Khushro Dehlavi,
In your parlor once, poets and artists did conclave,
Over the “daughter of grapes” and the smell of hafim!
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Written by
John Matthew |
I pause midway in the in the whirl,
Of deadlines, things undone,
And average the sadness and joys -
There remains only loneliness,
Of which I see no cure,
No bitter palliatives, no anodyne.
We remain in life’s journey,
Like loners sitting depressed,
On solitary park benches, or,
Standing in balconies, staring,
Loneliness gnawing at our minds,
As hungry ants at a grain of food.
Often in life’s vicious lanes,
In lonesome moments,
It’s our failures we ponder,
Not trasient joys and victories,
We do not remember other's courage,
Only their faults, and habits.
When in each passing lonely moment,
I count the millions of joyous seconds,
I was alive to witness this world, and,
Hurtful mimetic thoughts that passed me by,
My loneliness vanishes, I scream,
“I live; I am alive this lonely moment.
”
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Written by
John Matthew |
Wild are my ways, wilder than you think
You will find me standing a little left of frame
You will find me a little away from the meeting place
I am that and much more, insignificant me.
Yes I am the one with the faraway look
Of sailors of vast dreamy oceans
I look at faraway seas and mountains
And wonder why they aren’t near.
There’s great bitterness and dejection
That churns, congeals and emanates in my words
I think, I write, I orate, because I must
The anguish is great, there’s an ocean’s churn.
The world passed me by while I wandered
Over the personal deserts and wastelands of my life
To stories I wrote and the stories became me
Characters became me and I became them.
Crap me, scrap me, scratch me you will find
A man too deeply obsessed by observing the world
Who feels his words and sentence lay trapped
Inside him crying for want of pixels and time.
Out there he stands that man on a moonlit night
Shining like a tube and ranting like one possessed
Talking his story that no one cares to understand
Because it’s not his story but ghost stories they craved!
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Written by
John Matthew |
In Nevada there is a field where giant mushrooms grow
One mile high and two miles wide, they say on the show
That’s where they test how to vaporize people and flesh
By splitting and fusing atoms and start the world afresh.
A new era, a new definition, with the nuclear shield
Dawned with huge mushrooms grown on Nevada fields
Can erase whole cities, no need for guns or battle tanks
Tomorrow’s wars, the voice says, will be fought without ranks.
They are making bullets and missiles with lasers
That can picture the enemy, see in the dark, and subdue angers
Future soldiers don’t have to die for their country’s glory
They use their global positioning bullet, that’s the story.
Agree with me, don’t dissent, fall in line futile windmill tilters
Your wars are lost before you even see victory, dissenters
No more carpet and saturation bombing and damnation alley
They have no time to negotiate it’s you or them, you have to die.
They say their soldiers are smart , they see in the dark
Their bullets can pierce armor; they can blast your mark
Where were you soldiers of the mind, I mourn
When from your toils such Frankensteins were born?
No more carpet and saturation bombing and damnation alley
They have no time to negotiate it’s you or them, you have to die.
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