Poems...

Recipe for an Honour Killing…

To prepare the sauce…

Take one archaic social system in gross need of an update
Place in the pan of a moment
Heat over flames of self-serving ego and vain pride
Add spices of the bravery and innocence of young love
To a ghee of disapproval and arranged marriage
Stir vigorously with words like duty and tradition


To prepare the meat…

Discover two animals in love. Do not kill yet.
Thoroughly tenderise the meat first
With fists, with boots and with pick handles
Then roast on an open fire in the village square
Until the screams have ceased and the heart beats stop
If the meat is still a little pink
Finish it off with a hasty cremation at dusk

Garnish…

With Baksheesh and police cowardice
Serve on a platter of suppressed grief
And cold silence dressed as village solidarity

For extra flavour…

Label as 'assisted suicide'
And leave for a few weeks until well forgotten

Tractorflies…

The tractor lights to and fro
Monstrous mechanical fireflies
Ripping through the night sky

And riding by the fields
Where water sits dissolving
Crop corpses
The air is clammy close
Still oozing with the warmth of the day
As though its last breath just exhaled

The crows sits upon the line
Watching it all. Knowing all –
Why the tractors rip
Why the fields putrify
Why the air sticks and stifles

It is not yet time for swooping
Not yet time for the reaping

Indian Blood Money…

Money came to the people of India
Seeking new slaves for its work
But the people of India listened not
For they had spirit, soul and heart
And a connection with god ancient and deep
They did not need money to help make their smiles

Thanking God they used what money they needed
And sought nothing more from money
But money was determined to be loved
It was not content simply to serve
So money did what it always does
And played its game of divide and rule

It showed the children of India
An air-brushed photo of the West
And told them they were backward
It defined a bleached face beautiful
And questioned the virility of men
Then came its final coup de grace

It printed Gandhiji’s face on its notes
And came once again to the people of India
Saying, ‘look it is Gandhiji, you can trust me’
Well by now money’s venom was working
And the people believed what they should have known
Were lies designed to disempower

So when money offered them Nike chains
And shackles of Reebok and Adidas
The people wore them willingly
Debating whose prison garments were finer
As money erected the prison walls
Bricked with envies, fears and self-doubts

Money’s TV went to work ruthlessly
Creating from what was once unnecessary
The illusion of ‘cannot live without’
So the whitest shirt became important
To match the brutally whitened face
As everywhere money’s brands enslaved the Indian race

Until their came a point one day
When all that was sacred had been destroyed
For the clothes had became more important
Than the love of the heart within
Money, knowing it was loved as a god, watched the people
Polishing their branded shackles and chains

As out of sight a figure walked from Indian soil
She had a broken heart and a tear in her eye

It was Love…looking for a place to die