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Ashok Niyogi |
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TIME PASSES AND PASSING LEAVES NO TRACE 1 - BHUTAN We made a shortcut Through nascent paddy fields, Terraces into the sides of hills, We splashed across in sandaled feet. Ten, maybe fifteen leeches Stuck their suckers onto ankles, Between toes, And gorged themselves Until they were almost as thick As my little finger. All we did was carry common salt Which we sprinkled on their bloated forms, They would disintegrate, Leave a blob of blood, A red weal that would quickly heal, And a shred of inconsequential skin On the soggy mud. Life was uncomplicated then. 2 - MOSCOW Warmed up brandy and Cuban cigars Chased by Vodka in a crystal shot-glass, One dollop of caviar topped up with a cherry, And tankards full of Nevsky beer. Trees are barren, they wail with the wind, Soon it will snow. Gentle giant flakes Wafting down through the up lit Moscow, The chipped pavements, the cracked roads, Hydrants leaking steam from hot water pipes, They are all overwhelmed by the chaos of Yeltsin, Ornate chandeliers in incredible metros, Blink at pensioners and war widows, No one knows why in Chechnya, Flowers bloom and wilt away, Despite 'plant food' In poly packs. Nothing much more happens anyway, Life is full of twinkling stars. 3 - DELHI The topography of my split-level living room Flashes through my urgent mind, I must quickly negotiate one more step To reach the basin in the bathroom. Blood corrupts marble and the varnish On teak-wood doors, But washes away from porcelain, I must vomit in the basin. No common salt remedy now, They must band the esophagus, I have a 'gusher' so they must rush, Must force the blood to coagulate, The scab will leave a scar, And of course they must pump in, A basin full of somebody else's blood. 4 - KOLKATA I sit in the geometric center Of an absolutely windowless room, Just the floor, the ceiling, and me The walls are hostile aliens, In slow motion they inexorably close in. The air is fetid with my breath, With occult blood the floor is red, The color of red-oxide on the Golden Gate. In this lull before the ambulance comes, I illogically think of leeches In paddy fields. No holding of adolescent hands, No poetry near the memorial Of Queen Victoria, It is like a circus winding up, Packing bags, coaxing animals into cages, Hectic activity near railroad wagons, Complicated manifests to check through, Life is stuffed with inventory now. 5 - FREMONT Hospital visitors have dwindled to zero, The nurses and doctors are disgusted At life with its guided tour to death, They wish they were treating cancer instead, Not something self inflicted. The needles in my arms tell my head That is how it should be, But I need the poetry of Bukowski. There is no blood, So leeches avoid me, They can't possibly gorge On my poetry. The wife is like Quixote, Lancing windmills of the mind, Sancho Panza shall we sit By Lake Elizabeth, And surreptitiously feed the geese. We talk of the Mongolian Olympics, And plan to go this June. But before that, I must go to the Ganges, Meet it where it flows out from the hills, Stand in the fast, shallow, cold water, And perform mandatory last rites, For my father who died a year ago. You go back to Shanghai, Be with your uncle for a little while, These Nevada hills are anyway yellow, We will meet in December and gaze on the green, Let life go on, Until then. [Index] |
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Thunder Sandwich #26 - Summer/Fall 2005 |
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