Tag Archives: Poem

Seven Little Amputees: guest post by Kumar Shankar De

The following post is a by a guest @operation_cloud a very good friend of mine

 

Seven little amputees sitting on a tree

All their legs cut below their knee

‘How do you balance?’ a passerby said

‘We’ve got hands don’t we, you fucking dickhead’

 

Once when the branch was about to break

Amputee number three caught a nearby snake

He made it bite one and two

Their bodies dropped down and the others said ‘phew!’

 

Six was hungry so he cut five’s arm

He said it tasted like chicken from a farm

Unable to balance five fell down

The rest said ‘good riddance to another clown’

 

Seven and four had a sour past

They’d each survived a jihadi bomb blast

Not to be outdone by the other

They each decided to survive another

They blew the fucking tree apart

And all that remained was the smell of their fart

My Radical Shirt

Two years and three days back, a mere look of my wrinkled kurta, which I was wearing on that summer evening, inspired me to write about the most virulent form of disorder which any cloth would despise- Wrinkles. With no work to do, I gazed at my kurta for minutes and soon all the high-low depressions and wrinkles on it began to look like some sort of mountain ranges to me. And that was the exact moment when I attempted to write a poem giving a political color to the condition of the kurta portraying these wrinkles as evils trying to organize anarchy of the threads of the kurta. Later, I changed kurta to shirt as the latter appeared more befitting to me for creative reasons.

Caution: It may end up as a weird poetry reading experience for you!

————————————————————————————————————

The wrinkles on my shirt

look like a conservative network of

of a narrow dogma

breeding throughout

to keep the shirt

‘divided’.

the wrinkles on my

shirt look like physical

images taken from a satellite

as if terrorist hideouts are sighted!

The depressions on my shirt were formed

by a separatist thread

which I had pulled out

mercilessly,

and so each one of them rebelled

for autonomy.

the collar

of my shirt supply ammunitions

of dirt and filth

and

the folded cuffs threaten me

of more such instability.

Now,

Which thread will fill the void?

Which thread will heal my shirt?

The wrinkles on my shirt

hate the convolutions formed on it…

placid valleys of smoothness

had flourished

between them

but now

they are wrinkled too

which thread will fill the void?

which thread will heal my shirt?

The wrinkles on my shirt

looked like satellite images

as glaciers surmount over terrains.

I ruthlessly

stitched the disputed

area of my shirt

to discourage their

sedition.

But, I knew

my shirt would never look

beautiful like before

after putting up with such desecration.

On the other front,

the wrinkles emerged gigantic

even after the organized washing ‘pogrom’!

I put iron to crush their dissent

and they disappeared with no evidence…

but now

my shirt is again in the news

the wrinkles, by the evening, yet again

have held sway with their radical hues

Which thread will fill the void?

Which thread will heal my shirt?

-Danish
May 23, 2008