Poetry of Melody: Bewilderment

Poetry of Melody: Bewilderment: "Drum beating heard in the desert Camel finds water in the oasis of dead hopes Sweet rose blossoms in the bush for the unknown An el..."

Poetry of Melody: Bewilderment

Poetry of Melody: Bewilderment: "Drum beating heard in the desert Camel finds water in the oasis of dead hopes Sweet rose blossoms in the bush for the unknown An el..."

Bewilderment

Drum beating heard in the desert

Camel finds water in the oasis of dead hopes

Sweet rose blossoms in the bush for the unknown

An elegant palace emerges in the heart of the forest

Snake blows flute and people dance around it

As the dance become wild the world revolves

At the height of it people bite the snake

Wonder struck I set out in search of the root of happiness

I tread the thorny stony way

I pass by mountains and rivers

There is no water in the oasis

No rose in the bush

No palace in the forest

No drum beating is heard

The snake crawls to my head

But, I don’t have a flute to give it

There are no people to dance around me.

By Ismail Meladi

The Machine

At ten in the morning:

The wheel of the machine

Started moving

With a slightly terrifying noise

The moments started rolling

Along with the wheel,

Most obediently and devoutly;

Did I take the pen in my hand

Oh! I don’t remember that

It was beyond the fog of numbness

Oh! What a surprise,

It is noon already!

Yes, first of all,

The letters in my page,

Then, the ink in my pen,

Following them, my pen,

And at last, my fingers,

Have crawled and crawled

Along with the wheel

And at last, they have corroded

With the iron of the wheel

At five in the evening:

Oh my God, is it evening!

I have already lost my fingers,

So, I looked at my body

Oh heavens! It has happened

Exactly what I expected

Each of my organs

Have been blended with the wheel!

By Ismail Meladi

The burro at Sultanpur

In the busy main street

Of this Sultanpur city

Smeared with the dust of antiquity

Incessant flow of rickshaws

With non-stop rings of bells

Sounding like death knells

Colourful, clamorous and bright,

Still, beautiful is this ugliness of antiquity

There stands a burro exactly in the middle

Of this road surrounded by all these noises

Silent, sharpening and stretching its long big ears

At this time flows and reaches there

Beautiful music, stereo and non-stereo,

Announcement of lottery tickets,

With handsome promises on future,

Slogans, election manifesto, street politics,

Land boundary disputes, secrets of friends,

Luring laughs of ladies flirting with their lovers

But, the burro stands on the middle of the road

In the same state, unmoved and dispassionate

And, many centuries have passed now.

By Ismail Meladi

Indian images

I saw land areas, I saw forest areas

I saw land people in the forests

I saw barbaric people in the land

The ‘worms’ scrawling in the farms

And the life immersed in the dust

Wishes are being sucked in

By the chimneys of factories

Hopes are being driven far away

Along with the herds of cows

Those who toil for greening this land

Return to the palm huts of darkness

In the evening, crossing the desert

And again, the day dawns decrepit

The bullock carts roll panting

On the marooned track of ‘progress’

Loads burden up and bulls bend down

Carts stop at the red light of the rail track

After scaling up the steep road

Rajdhani Express sped away in front of them

On the electric line with AC three-tier coaches

Thousands of temple bells rang together

In the inner heart of the cart driver

Tridents headed towards his stomach.

By Ismail Meladi

Fly Socialism

The greatest socialists

In this country

Are the flies

They don’t discriminate

Between poor or rich

They act without bothering

Whether it is a patient

Or a healthy person

They don’t think about

The colour or race

Whether blacks or whites

They like everybody equally

Be it a north Indian

Or a south Indian

A Punjabi or a Tamil

A Bengali or a Malayali

The flies place their bottoms,

As they like, on everybody’s body

The flies do not find it difficult

To stay anywhere

Whether it is the waste bin

Or palatial mansions

They have no problem

In breathing the free air

Whether it is clean or dirty

They bless the elderly

As they bless the children

Flies are not shy to sing

In front of anybody

If need arises

They dare to venture out

At any time of the night

They don’t care a bit

For people’s positions or respect

Or even the caste differences

They make all of them their preys.

By Ismail Meladi