Accra Street

Sellers of risk at every crossroad,
Long loaves of bread undated,
Unkempt pavements un-turned,
Busted shades of hope laid bare,
Kaput power, long cut not so rare,
Feline eyes adjust into this night,
Pierce this lanky impoverishment,
Hear cars shriek, stuck horns bleat,
On them the weight of yester dust
Resigned to this ignored,tired fate,
Tattered , yet unhurt, undeterred,
Dreams interred, slowly stirred,
The yeoman wait,
To cross the street’s fate.



In this long hall of continental silence,
Lighted by shafts of aureolic darkness,
Socratic, and so despairingly intense,
My land graffiti of a fifty one scars,
Swiped by ruthless extricators,
Left me, landless, impoverished,
Dug long interred stones and bones,
Set me to insensate, blunt sword,
Stole many splendoured nugget,
Diamond in fashion shows trotted,
Bedecked Saxonian breasts
Dowried Teutonic crests,
In arrogance, they seek,
Me and my kings so meek,
Hurried ,humble yet humiliated,
They said we had lost,
History they wrote,
Me, vanquished,
plundered, tired,
Wait for your aid,
which is but your invest.
In my wretched state,
I am patient yet.


Me and quietude, beside to share,
This west end of a long corridor,
Now a mute crest at some rest,
Eyes straining the night, to reset,
Experiencing a calm emptiness,
Reflective stimulus, this darkness,
Power cuts soothe my grilled nerves,
Thoughts are shorn of frills or swerves,
Short left my false, winding lanes,
Now traverse penurious strains,
Riotous colours of yesterday,
Uncivil, unsure, rigorous today,
Thunderstorms nudge my door,
Past them tall gates of fear,
Mud, brown, exuberant, so, ajar,
Raindrops tug, whistle, tear,
Trickle past the colonial wire
Rolled, barbed, now to retire,
Meditate, open my third eye,
Smear myself in ashes dry
To see , to feel,
Touch natural,
Your innocence,
Your timelessness.

The Son’s Sorrow ( Abhimanyu’s Lament)

As I eavesdropped , lazy, on your prowess,
Within my cosy womb, so devoid of stress,
Heard you narrate on swift, secular strategies,
Me so proud of our ancestral, deprived horologies ,
You, impeded by Krishna, in his opaque, timeless balance,
From revealing all; mom, comfort zoned, tired in lost trance,
Me, rendered thus a partial warrior, experienced to enter,
None could, my futile and forlorn fury, withstand or deter,
My thought was just to be you, your hero , you my warrior,
We are but a race prior scrolled, born to be scarred superior,
I knew I was foregone, strewn ere I entered the field, the ring ,
Where the seasoned , experienced are unfair to the bold young,
They saw me destroy formations and bastions, in my fearsome retreat,
Broke my armour, but not my confidence in devious, combined deceit,
Oh! Father I cannot be you only because, the aged held back,
Refused the youth to disclose all , the truth to generously unpack.
On this set up battlefield of guilt, I have failed,
You hear my name, brave and loud and I am so ashamed .

The Father’s Sorrow- Dhrithrashtra

Me, a father lost in filial love, so normal,
Power, trove , land all are in every sense so real,
Kin’s descendants are best banished by kings all,
Into dark, waxed walls domiciled, spirits ever enthrall
Me blinded by self centredness,
Encouraged aggressive rootlessness,
Fratricide; deaf to their pleas,
Ignored mediator even on lease,’
Tonight as I feel, step on myriad corpses strewn,
Kids and dreams interspersed on abandoned fields as one,
No juvenile is now saved for the battle future,
Fled lances, hurt my feet, no needle to wound suture,
I search for a son to lead me, sit by my side,
Hold me, light my pyre in whose flames I shall hide.

Sudama’s Penury

All that I have are four fistfuls of borrowed rice,
Fried, neat , packed in tatters, hid dark with dice,
In exchange for these, I hope to borrow some wealth,
Some relief from this frail but famished, hungered health,
Never mind that I starve, am a wandering mendicant,
With this little wrapped move, now a subtle supplicant,
Penury benumbs me but , hold! My partner weeps,
In sorrow and hunger even as she dream sweeps,
I am thus forced by this insecurity to set out,
Seek my friend’s clout for some sudden bailout,
His embrace shames me, my tears hide my guilt,
Mortifying warmth gnaws deep, now love quilt,
Cannot beg from a friend, so I shall retreat,
To forgive me, I shall beseech and entreat.
Krishna, you read my blank mind, hear my silence,
As you wish away my poverty, I have no grievance.
Save that if you gift me everything,
To think of you, I am left with nothing.

Balarama’s Story

Forever, brother Krishna, I live in your shadows,
Defending joyously all your pranks in them meadows,
With your disc, and my mace , the plough and pestle,
We strove, together to beat them in wrestle,
They, only wrote your name on every leaf,
I accompanied you , partook every loaf,
They , worshipped you at every nook,
They heard your flute at every brook,
I dreamt your success, lapped up your words,
Writhed as my students at war with swords,
Held your hand, your restraint on my shoulders,
As I in wrath, rolled and re-rolled boulders,
For me and the world you are all that matters,
As history ignores me, my heart is at times in tatters.
For I know,
History is you.