Whatsapp inspired this post. Sharanya Manivannan - sensuous poet, consummate weaver of enigmatic tales, high priestess of aromatic and erotic prose, and my beloved friend in Chennai - sent me some audio clips of her poetry. My flagging appetite for wordplay aroused by the piquancy & precision of her sultry voice, I was prompted to unearth my 1994 collection of "eschatological & scatological poems" titled Moth Balls (Magick River, 1994, limited edition). Experimentally I recorded a few short ones and sent them over. She responded most encouragingly and magnanimously. I was sufficiently heartened to rummage through the hoary collection and pick out a few for a fresh airing. Thank you, Sharanya!
The first offering is, I believe, my earliest attempt at versifying, written as a Creative Writing class assignment when I was 17...
PAEAN TO THE BRAVE SOLDIER
Is it not quite often thought
(& very often believed)
that the brave men who fought
and died for God & King
(or some other Thing)
are inadequately aggrieved
and cried for,
though inordinately touching
(it is often said)
is their sacrifice of costly life
that must be paid
as patriotism's price?
Anyway no one I know
will go so far
(since the war is won)
as to say we have not mourned.
In truth no tear has been forborne;
no ceremony neglected;
and in good cheer
we'll have erected
a monument of marbled brick,
to be unveiled to the public
while brass bands playing
(the nation's honor portraying)
salute good citizens
(the ones, of course, who are taxpaying).
Altogether it will be
a memorable testimony
of our pride
in the honorable
men who died
sailing against the
Evil Tide:
loyal men, courageous & willing,
who were killed while they were killing
for God & King
(or some other Thing).
1967
WHEN NOTHING CAN POSSIBLY
when nothing can possibly
be more than what the public eye can see
& everything that is believed to be;
when there are no more trees
for sleepy sitting under;
when each & every busy bee
but lives in concrete hives for plunder -
then creation has only been a big bad blunder
when there is not a lot of or
even just a little time
& absolutely no space for
one heart to feel
full of all the love
that is, will be & was -
inadequate space &
insufficient time for love sublime -
then this race of humans is an inhuman crime
1970
IN THE PALACE GARDENS
under mushrooms of vermilion
in a maroon pavilion sits the King
typing this
trifling
thing: the
disting-
uished ring
of the King's Royal machine
at each ending
line
reminds me of times
I laid with the Queen
as we played with the genes
of Frank & Stein the Einst (such fine
clients of science) and
under gold & green umbrellas &
masses of gases
our moments of mirth
gave globular birth
to elfin princes & princesses
in new blueprint dresses
peopling a virginal
Earth
1972
[First posted 22 October 2013, reposted 19 November 2015 & 4 December 2016]