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Array
(
[sid] => 169848
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => Waiting for that poem
[time] => 2012-01-01 22:17:10
[hometext] => workers farmers displacement
[bodytext] => I am trying to write a poem For the last ten years But have not written a single word The moment letters try to become a word Some images emerge Scuffle with them Words and images Images and words and cries emanating from within Strange and familiar cries of Farmers Forest dwellers Tribals- Forcibly evicted Smashed ravaged the cries of workers helpless workers crushed in the machines of the factories …and then the letters jumble …and the words start changing And three hundred thousand farmers three hundred thousand farmers- killed themselves To save themselves From an infinite cobweb of exploitation by The moneylenders Banks And the government! The government formed by their votes Their suicide change into numbers The numbers change into insensitive data Three hundred thousand persons Human beings Made of bones, marrow and muscles Not different from any other living human being Twenty six letters become insufficient to describe their agony Words fail And the poem does not start- It wears shroud Three hundred thousand shrouds And the poem goes silent from carrying this burden Meanwhile The looters of the words Start their game The government has words The filthy monstrous rich Getting richer alongwith growing inflation keep the purchased- words in their safe -deposit box workers, farmers, forest dwellers fail to realize the game of words the trickery of words the illusion of words they don’t understand they don’t recognise the words they know and understand only hard labour their capital- only body ! they don’t know where does it go the blood and sweat they burn day and night in the boiling heat of factories and farms ? where does it close for ever in the dark chests and secret coded lockers in unknown countries ? Poetry goes silent Three hundred sixty five days Twenty six letters Fail to make any equation They begin to see fearfully- Singur, Nandigram, Jangalmahal Dantewada, Gobindpur, Bhatta -Parsaul And blood sucking Draculas ready in line to swallow Their farmland, forest, hills… They are hungry to capture farmland - To sell high-rise buildings They are hungry to plunder hills - to rob stones and minerals and make them Dadhichi * forcefully They need forests - to erect monstrous factories on the corpse of dumb trees Displacing the farmers and the tribal from their land Their own land Inherited from their ancestors Forcing them out like wild animals With baton-charging police Chasing them out… The poem is scared It hides Poor twenty six letters -Run away For fear of becoming a word The poem is never made It won’t be made I would remain thinking about it only With pen freeze in my hand For the next ten years… The poem would be written When the farmers and the workers Shedding their fear Shedding their weakness Unite Pounce upon And attack on their behemoth enemies We would have to join them in that Great War Coming out of our cogs sitting on the fence won’t do we would then emerge victorious that will be the victory of the people the real victory a fight to the finish the decisive battle the oppressed humanity would win looters would go away never to return any more the words would return free from captivity Letters and words won’t remain imprisoned within the rogue data their meaning would come out the poem would come out spontaneously effortlessly that poem would be vibrant and pulsating Let us wait for that poem!! *Dadhichi: a Hindu mythological sage who donated his bones to form vajra- an indestructible, super-strong weapon of Indra, the chief of Gods. [comments] => 1 [counter] => 101 [topic] => 41 [informant] => PankajPrasoon [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 0 [ratings] => 0 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => political )
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