The third poem from Mustansir Dalvi’s poetry collection Brouhahas of Cocks. Also, the second last poem for this month.
– Mustansir Dalvi
It’s those bloody slumwallahs again
my father curses, wet from the rain;
they’re back, throwing rocks at trains
so,so heartless, so totally insane.
I peek out from behind exhaust shaft
at the mob that destroys, burns and laughs;
duck just in time as a spinning half-
bat crashes through our grimy pane.
The old man rushes to take us in
two sons, one wife, no next of kin
into the backroom store, on its roof of tin
skeletons dance to staccato strains.
I turn the back handle, quick, scurry out
onto rain swept rails, heart thudding, father shouts.
I turn left, then right, and finally, head south
to pick my rocks, to choose my trains.
And finally, I’m posting poems for July in the right month – well, almost. The poet for the month is Indrajit Hazra and poems will be from his poetry book Twentyfour Poems.
And I think I’ve found the perfect first poem:
– Indrajit Hazra
A monsoon drips through the picked sky.
Warm July can rest on its back now
And let the saline drips patter.
In wet hushed tones
Comparable to silence
With bullfrogs butting in.
The streets inch up
Rising garbage water lake.
Tomorrow be born
In showered night
Not ready yet
Still far too shy.
Wading through the city slime
Half-opened buttons let in the drops,
Those slanting rains
Of prancing clouds
Of dancing pools
Of puddled sounds.
No, I won’t sidestep tonight,
Nor tiptoe on,
Nor return to cover as the prodigal son.
I’ll walk on drenched
A parched piece of barren land
Smiling at each rain-beaded face,
While the beast
Carries on its swirl.