A love-poem

I had written this love-poem some time back, thought of publishing it in the month of February for its popular association with “Love”, but somehow failed to do so. Anyway, better late than never:

I don’t know whether you would agree with me that love like youth like life perishes to dust and withers with time. We pass a certain span of time on earth doing some activities and trying to give it some meaning by naming it: purpose. When someone says: “I love you” ;
there is so much purpose and passion in it, as that person’s admiration, devotion and dedication is directed towards one particular “you”. And in the process of loving someone, that person is creating memory and unconsciously trying to surpass death.

But, are we able to reside in the memory that we thus create in peoples’ minds? After all, only an impression of personal perspective of the person who is beholding the memory, stays. Still our journey of life finds meaning only when we are able to find purpose, find lover and beloved in order to manifest our passion (the life force).

So, I believe we all are born rebels. Futilely fighting against death or aping to rise above it behind the ruse of purpose, thus overlooking the inevitable fact that nothing, other than documented memory lasts forever. Alas! Even that impressionistic perception  called memory is susceptible to mutability. 

I wonder! What are we perusing? What do we desire?What are we looking at?

With that thought, let me present my poem to you:

Pankaja

Celebrating the inevitability of mutability… A realization beyond love and life.

My love is like that fresh produce

in the market place

at the time of noon.

Failed at the day’s fondles

anxious and dwindled

tired and swooned.

Am I a freak pluck?

Can't I adorn a porcelain bowl?

Be the spice of  korma,

jalfrezi or ethereal jhol.

Its past noon!

I assume I can't even decorate

A poor man’s plate: Panta- Bhat:

Thought my woe betide soul.

I wish I could speak to my Master!

Convince Him, or His wife

to take me Home.

They could have

shredded me off,

severed my rot

and added me to their broth.

But they did not do so.

They dumped me beside

the sewage gutter.

in filthy stenchy

murky litter.

I wailed at my predicament!

Wallowing in my woe.

Past the noon

and the afternoon.

My putrefying ridges saw

A limp goat wobbling forth.

Thus finding some purpose

in being its nourishment.

It gobbled me whole.

Om Mani Padme Hum!

Om Mani Padme Hum!

My love is like that ridged gourd

at the marketplace

ravished by the goon noon.

Romancing with my

Limp Goat

until he becomes

Rogan josh.    

 

*Panta bhat: rice soaked in water overnight; to be consumed with chilli, onion, fries, poppy dumplings; popularly eaten during summer months.

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photo courtesy : Google Image