Long Mutilated Poems
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Patradoot or The Messenger 5/Many
English version by
Ravindra K Kapoor
If there wicked hands will ever catch you,
Your body will be mutilated in pieces,
And then, you would never be able to see,
My beloved to convey my message, dear letter.
Ravindra
Kanpur India. 13th May 2010 to continue in 6
Background of this Epic
The Patradoot was written originally by my late father
Dr.Amar Nath Kapoor in 1932. He had joined India’s
Freedom struggle in 1920 on the call of Mahatma Gandhi.
From 1920 till 1947 (India became free in 1947)
my father was in active movement as Congressman &
Gandhi’s non-violent soldier. For many times he was
imprisoned for many months and sometime, even for more
than a year. He dedicated the entire writing work to his
dear wife, my late mother, who was also a co-partner with
him in the freedom struggle in creating mass awareness.
During one such imprisonment at Faizabad jail, he wrote
this epic and sent it to my mother secretly as a gift for her
and to get it printed & circulated among the masses to
create awareness for India’s freedom. The book was
printed by my mother in Hindi and some of this epic were
circulated also, but the British confiscated the book and the
press of my father around 1933. I was born in 1950 in a free
India. I am trying to bring this great writing of my father in
English which portrays more than the translation of the epic,
so the world may come to know about this otherwise lost
and forgotten great great writing and the sacrifices of my
patents towards India’s freedom struggle.
Dr. Amar Nath Kapoor left active politics after 1947
and devoted rest of his life in writing easy mass literature
and wrote many Dramas, Poetry books, epics etc. All his
other literary works were mainly written from 1955 to 1990.
He left this mortal world in 1994. Unfortunately many of his
World class works could not be published so far and Patradoot
is one of them.
Ravindra
Transliteration of Hindi poem in English- Patradoot or the Messenger.
Kutil Kuron Me Pur Kur Unke,
Aunga Bhunga Ho Jayega,
Purna Roop Se Priya Darshan Ko,
Phir Tu Kabhi Na Payega.
Patradoot in Hindi written by
Dr. Amar Nath Kapoor
Protected as per Poetry Soup’s copy write protections
I slash with my sword and I push with my shoulder. Every muscle and every tendon is screaming in agony. I can feel every pressure when my blade makes contact. I’m grunting with passion as I push every extremity to the very breaking point. I let my mind wonder to the past, where my family was butchered and mutilated when I was 10 years old. I lost everything I loved and anything that mattered to me, but my passion. Revenge echoes in my mind over and over, like the rumbling of thunder in the summer storms when they pass. Revenge against those who could do the things I’ve seen, beasts that slaughtered my whole family. I have spent years here, learning the warrior’s way, feeling the grunge and toils from everyday training.
My sword is now a part of my body, so swift and true. I can draw it sharply and silent to bring it up my enemy. I spin my body and crouch down low, dodging my enemy and thrusting my sword into his chest. My body has become one single weapon for me to use. My mind is sharp and ready for the challenges of all those who oppose me. I will fight for honor and what is right and damnation to those who are evil and selfish. In the distance a voice echoes in my ears, “Piiid!” “Pid!” This sound grows louder as I strain my muscles and sharpen my skills. “PIIIDDD!!!” “HAULT!” and then I realize that master Baracus has been calling me. Turning around, I see Baracus standing there with a puzzled look on his face. He is a tall elder man with a chiseled chin and scars across both cheeks. His skin tone is deep red from the Sun’s scorching heat of the day. His balding head has traces of white hair around each side and the tunic of a trainer is all black with gold trim. His deep blue eyes gaze upon me in frustration, “You must focus on all things around you Pid, you will leave yourself open to attack without it”.
Baracus turns to walk towards the shelter as he mumbles various curses at me. “You young bucks have no attention and focus” as he slowly walks to sit down. “I was focused on my training you old goat” I persist. As we both sit down, he makes his brittle response, “Damn young blood makes poor fertilizer for our fields” as we both bellow with laughter. He is my mentor and trainer, but most of all he took me in and called me his son. He has trained me in the way of the warrior and what it means to be honorable and noble.
Historically accurate, narrative poem
25 June, 1876 - Valley of the Little Bighorn
Nothing stirs this June night, not a summer’s breeze or a breath of life. All is eerily quiet, and on yonder hillside, shroud of darkness and death descended, lay ten score men and more, naked, mutilated and dead, strewn grotesquely white among their horses slain, as bulwarks of flesh against the Sioux in vain. Stench of death everywhere, the din of battle no longer there, said to have sounded like snapping threads in the tearing of a blanket, albeit their frenzied volleys found mostly air.
Swept away like chaff by a vengeful Gall, from Finley Ridge to Calhoun Hill, the men of Companies C and L were first to die, then next to fall was Company I. Further down the ridge on a death pocked hill, gathered around their commander in a desperate band, remnants of E and F with a Fugitive few were the last of the soldiers to stand. Mortally wounded, bullet through breast, a brevet or coffin had been his request. Down upon knees begging no quarter, revolver still firing the latter he receives. As the death blow falls, so also falls Son of the Morning Star.
From out of the smoke dust and din, only one from the Command emerges to return home again. Look! Up on the hill there is a stirring, amongst the shadows and gun smoke yet lingering, a solitary figure to life still clinging, is struggling to reach the river refreshing to bathe his wounds and ease the pain inflicted by humans gone insane. But of the day on that hillside far, of the carnage and death he did see, of the smoke and the hell and of a fallen star he would no-one ever tell, for he was Keogh’s mount, the valiant horse Comanche.
Earlier that day much like a cavalier Knight, Custer with his 7th arrived spoiling for a fight. Into the valley of the Little Bighorn they rode, battalions deployed to sweep left and charge to the front, while his columns of four detached to the right. Further ever further was pressed the advance, in to the jaws of perdition where they hadn’t a chance, to keep the appointment with destiny on that hillside far and eternal night for Son of the Morning Star.
No, nothing stirs this June night, not a summer’s breeze or a breath of life and across the valley up on yonder hillside, all now is eerily quiet.
EXCUSE ME!!!!
Do you not see me
standing before you?
Do you not realize that I,
a black woman had a life
that mattered too?
The black woman appears to be
the best kept secret in death
being wiped from the face of the earth
where many won’t remember
our names or know of our existence
When black girls vanish
the only way anyone knows is
through the newsfeed of social media
when white girls vanish
the news media makes sure
the world is notified
while paying no attention
to the clues of plasma
footsteps we leave behind
Many ignore the crimson bleed
of life that seeped
from the opening of the
slashed throat racism made
leaving us to become
the mutilated corpse lying
on the ground society
relentlessly steps over
We’re viewed as a nothing gender
Melanated race of women
often deemed as bothersome or angry
The bellows of our spirits
are discombobulated
as we quickly become
shadows of unrecognized Queens
we are being killed in alarming masses
and all you can say is we must of had it coming
Black women are the givers of the
black lives that are supposed to matter
still we are looked upon
as the doormat placed at
the bottom of the totem pole
you seem to enjoy wiping your feet on
When it comes to black men,
you are seen and heard,
be it good bad or indifferent
but how high must a black woman jump
in order to be seen
how loud must a black woman shout
in order to be heard
Better yet
how many black women need to
be annihilated before our lives
are mourned and celebrated
Brothers, are you willing to
stand up to protect us, even if it's
your fellow brother we need
to be protected from
Our life and death must not be in vain
So what will you do in order change it
Remember,
black women marched for you
don’t you think it's time you march for us?
We are forced into invisibility
like the remnants of
Sandra Bland’s disparity
that was swept under the rug
and lifeless body of Kanika Jenkins
they shoved into a refrigerated coffin
Nia Wilson’s memory they washed away
along with her blood that stained the platform
of a Bay Area Transit Station
or Breonna Taylor and Atatiana Jefferson's peace
they fatally laid to rest in the confines
of their own home
I will forever remember their names...will you??
Thine distorted reflection rippled
within rain maker's pool
upon a midnight clear
full moonlight sonata
flooded shallow abyss,
cleaved fractal structures of silence
reverberating deathly hallow from 'ere
to infinity, whence magic wand
whipped out from
whereabouts unknown
wove disenchanting spell
atop me shaded noggin more'n
fifty ruffle lake suns
Dorian Gray pictured here
to fore, awakened
from drunken stupor,
whence sober self
saw repulsive trouper
fluid dynamic image jeer
at pot bellied, dead panned,
and ad libbed the mere
ore image lam bent,
mutilated spindled
various horrid aspects of
myself nine inch
rusty nails impaired
which, aghast at such
creepy distortion i didst rear
like a bucking bronco unclear
how this horrid, jagged,
limned paragon did wear
a grotesque disfigured Joeseph Conrad
lost within heart of darkness – maybe Zaire
or Zulu-land, this
soaked silhouette half bare
from waist to head showed unmanly
sagging overly engorged breasts
plus right and left elephant sized ear
egad, THAT CANNOT BE ME,
yet upon performing
self exam a glare
ring outburst ensued,
cuz thy once
bronzed handsome physique
now grist for a Joker to jeer
and fodder made
for television series created,
directed, and executed by Norman Lear
which role might be
temporary for Halloween, but near
lee every SINGLE day and night,
thy aged dusk fraught hominid jerked,
leaped, pooh poohed I ham ill prepared
to accept, roistering, rollicking,
rueing this Frankenstein scarred
complex deplorable edifice able,
ready, and willing to be tarred
rather than evince flabbiness,
gruesome homeliness, instance
when no objection would arise
to live out the remaining days of this life
as the world wide web turns, spins, rattles...
and voluntarily sign myself into a stew ward
with (at minimum ), a ghoulish, gnarly,
gummy self activated door
leading to privet hedge row trimmed
topiary resplendent yard
cuz every cotton pickin, friggin,
fingerhut lickin portal iz barred
dated Friday the thirteenth
with **** face on that card!
The whole world stopped turning,
and the air had run stale.
No, I cannot lie,
you've before heard this tale.
A desperate endeavor,
a pathetic attempt.
I, again, offer love,
but am met with contempt.
My soul is bled dry,
and my corpse left to hang.
My bones are left broken;
incomparable pain.
Another deception-
just more lies of a love.
At this point, he's killing me;
slow, just for fun.
He draws out my pain
as he carves out my tongue.
And reminds me my dream,
it will never become.
For all that I've wanted-
out of this dreadful life..
..was to simply be heard
through my hurt and my Strife.
He shamelessy smiles
as he tears out the rest.
Finds more pleasure in this
than he'll ever admit.
Can't be heard with no tongue!
And to him, it's no matter.
He tells me he's sorry,
and that things will get better.
But next on his list
are my ears and my eyes.
And its all for the sake
of maintaining his lies.
"You're simply unworthy",
what he says as he burns them.
Taking care to make sure
I can't use them against him.
But for some odd reason,
(?) still find out his deeds.
Pain too much to bear,
and I fall to my knees.
I'm mute, deaf and blind now,
so it does not matter.
At least, not to him;
as my heart, he still shatters.
Skin me alive-
(and) string me up a noose.
For I cannot handle
this deadly abuse.
Pushing me to the edge
just to see if I'll fall.
There is no pain in hurting me;
no remorse afterall.
A motionless face,
as he makes his decisions.
You see, he doesn't care
(as) long as there's no witnesses.
I'm dying in silence,
all alone behind doors.
Can no longer be heard,
as blood covers the floors.
I bleed & I bleed,
wishing I would just go.
For if I'm not worth loving,
I do not want to know.
Mutilated, dismembered;
my body in pieces.
But it does not compare
to what level my grief is.
I've wondered why this
is the way that I'm "Loved".
Or if I deserve it
for something I've done.
In the end makes no difference;
bleeding like a stuck pig.
Maybe, this time I'll die,
so my pain finally ends.
A Rant – The Quiet Hypocrisy
it seeps in through gradual osmosis
and soon is ingrained in pliant minds
it mutates and thrives in tunnels of vision
and then is fused into the fiber of unreason
the quiet hypocrisy that drips of the tongues
spouting broken words of unfathomable callousness
the mutilated reeking carcass of cynicism
obscured by the veneer of polished discourse
stinks of inaction and of insipid rationalization
the probing and prodding and splintering of each thought
curdles the shallow layer of feeling
interring the basic simple and only humanity
that is gleefully ripped into isolated fragments
the quiet hypocrisy of battles fought and of causes embraced
is plain to see in the faces of the earnest
as they cling onto their bitter loathsome prejudices
whilst buying redemption under a placard of well-meaning
the quiet hypocrisy of these selective battles waged under the flimsy pretense of caring
stinks to the highest heaven promised in mantras and duas and prayers and chants
as the spectacle of the apartheid within the mind is worn on each tailored sleeve
the choosing of these battles in the name of faith and clung onto simply because of a common creed
is a pathetic spectacle of segregated thought
buried under the folds of righteous bluster
so before you jump on that bandwagon of indignation because 'your' people are in pain
take a look at the hidden fascism that simmers just below your holier-than-thou sudden spurt of heartfelt rage
for the quiet hypocrisy that is unknowingly imbibed
is apparent for all to behold
for when the 'other' endure the injustice carried out in 'your' peoples' name
you stand mute and silently complicit for your indignation simply melts away
as the quiet hypocrisy that is firmly rooted in you
exults in pious pretences while 'your' own continue to hate, rape, pillage and slay
it saddens me that so much vitriol drips off my pen in such effervescent times
but I cringe as each moment another quiet hypocrite rants about the despotism of the 'other'
while smiling complacently and smugly and soaking in the quiet hypocrisy of remaining mute about 'my' peoples' own crimes
Form:
A prudent man walked intoxicatedly inside the temple gate
He sits on the door steps and hang his head shamefully
between his legs and whistle a somber tune.
The skillfully crafted temple hoisted on the outskirt of town
Once served as a pinnacle of hope now stands empty exposing signs of doom.
Thousand of spiritual warriors, carnal minded and material minded sinners
once paraded the corridors of the disfigured temple
Bathing in the spirit and dancing vigorously to musical songs.
I watched him lamenting in grief unable to hold back the tears
He held his hands towards the heavens and cried out loudly in despair.
Suddenly the day breaks ironing guilt upon shameless faces
Mocking perishing souls, smothering wounded hearts
And repudiating punctured bleeding vessels in the pews.
The blistered irony resonates from the pulpit
Spewing liquor, intoxicating believers and driving away strangers.
Age old rocks buried deep beneath the kingdom of doom
playing rock and roll at the piano and mumbling scores of honor.
It dribbles and drops, dribbles and drops until it finally made a stop.
Dozens of mighty men hang high up on the pulpit
Filthy hands, disdained hearts and treacherous ways.
They have blemished the pulpit and mutilated the pew.
Sin drapes like gangster in suits crawling under skirts
riding on collars ejecting deceptive agony
in the pews and turned the congregation into a bitter gall.
I sat in the pews for years listening to their stories
watching the endless drama pushing and shoving
bad mouthing and back stabbing and them praising their God
While unseemly retribution creeps silently upon their doorsteps.
Blinded by their own tyranny frighted by their own thoughts
Sunday after Sunday they flock the temple seeking for something that wasn't there
Suddenly a strange sensation ripped through the atmosphere
Pulling saints off their feet
And scattering material minded people in the streets.
©2014 Christine Phillips
O Magog,
from the sterile land of Gog,
thou rejoicest over how thy biological idol father
hast devilishly embraced thee
Spiritual mathematics
offer free radical theorems
of probability analysis
Doth thy Gentile nuclear goggles
allow thee to see
the virtual microbe mushrooming variables
in a decaying half-life reality?
O bastard son
of a thousand fathers
Raised on sour milk doctrines,
from the hard paps —
Udders on an impudent heifer mother
of a thousand harlots,
has weaned thee
in the ways of greed and destruction
Canst thy cannibal siblings,
Tiras and Meshech,
help save thee
with their scientific, canine calculations?
O Magog,
from the mutated land of Gog,
will thy incestuous father’s
Tubal-cain covetous leprosy
overtake thee?
Thou loveth thy beauty spots
inordinately
Brimstone salt cities of wanton lasciviousness
pepper thy mutilated land
The merchants of concupiscence
travel ceaselessly upon thy algorithm waves
Slavishly trafficking tainted wares exponentially
in thy free marketplaces
As the integer worms of digital reproach
feed upon the Kittim kabuki faces
Probability analysis
predict with prescient accuracy:
The radioactive remnants
of a cancerous tumor civilization,
shall struggle mightily
to revive it’s flag half-mast past glory
O Magog,
the war dogs of death
howl oppressively for thee
Thy merchant ghost ships
of Tarshish
has become floating debris
Glowing green false profit wreckage
washes upon
thy polluted Gog shores continually
O Magog,
who shall account for thy losses?
Does not the tabulated numerical conclusion
reveal the astronomical costliness
of thy prolific, propagating cloned vanity?
Which of thy mariner children
shall read
the technological epitaph
on thy submerged Titanic tombstone?
Triple digit uncertainty doth statistically vex thee ...
because of the frightening probability analysis,
which thou vile reptilian mind didst not take heed
O Magog,
chief Gentile prince
from the barren hinterland of Gog —
There is no upraised hand
to retrieve thy dropped divining scepter
There's a man who I call DeSatan
From Florida to Sunshine State
who said that slavery for Black folks in America
was beneficial and great.
they were taught skills on how to be
better productive slaves
and those beatings, rapes and lynchings
was simply how white folks behave
no need for us to get bent out of shape
we just need to realize
to that to have been a slave in America
was considered an enormous prize
and to add insult to injury.
we have a few token Blacks
who co-signed that bull
as some historical fact
DeSatan in my opinion,
is simply a Nazi fascist prick
who tends to overcompensate
as he probably has a little dick
an angry and bitter man
who on divisiveness firmly stands
to go pick a fight with the Disney corporation,
your state's largest employer is beyond dumb
and if the company vacates your state,
where will all that lost revenue now come from?
slavery was an abomination
America's most heinous sin
and if we don't stay diligent,
they may try to revive it all over again
white nationalist, domestic terrorists
and the MAGA Supreme
will try to tell you that slavery
wasn't what it seemed
generational chattel
never an opportunity to be free
born into captivity, no chance of liberty
degraded, debased and worked
like the lowliest of dogs
hell, they had more respect
for their cattle, horses, pigs and hogs
slaves were caned, whipped and mutilated
for the smallest offense
Yet the slave owners never showed any empathy,
no consideration and no penitence
slaves were viewed as 3/5 of a human being
who only deserve endless and senseless beatings
I can't imagine nor see any benefit in all of that
and for anyone to say otherwise. It's just bull crap
slavery wasn't slavery.
It was involuntary relocation
a training program to teach African Americans.
a viable vocation
slavery wasn't slavery
it was an inconvenience ideology
a social experiment that white folk in America
don't believe warrants an apology
it was what it was and Black folks need to let it go
as slavery wasn't slavery because white folks say so