Of mundane ritual, of breakfasts and crumbs, of houses and buses, of power outages and beloved pets. To slice away a moment from the known and the familiar, to serve it slightly warmed, on a delicate porcelain quarter plate with the slightest chip on the side, with a spoon of the most perfect curvature. That. That is poetry at its most delicious.
Tell the Bees
– Sarah Lindsay
Tell the bees. They require news of the house;
they must know, lest they sicken
from the gap between their ignorance and our grief.
Speak in a whisper. Tie a black swatch
to a stick and attach the stick to their hive.
From the fortress of casseroles and desserts
built in the kitchen these past few weeks
as though hunger were the enemy, remove
a slice of cake and lay it where they can
slowly draw it in, making a mournful sound.
And tell the fly that has knocked on the window all day.
Tell the redbird that rammed the glass from outside
and stands too dazed to go. Tell the grass,
though it’s already guessed, and the ground clenched in furrows;
tell the water you spill on the ground,
then all the water will know.
And the last shrunken pearl of snow in its hiding place.
Tell the blighted elms, and the young oaks we plant instead.
The water bug, while it scribbles
a hundred lines that dissolve behind it.
The lichen, while it etches deeper
its single rune. The boulders, letting their fissures widen,
the pebbles, which have no more to lose,
the hills—they will be slightly smaller, as always,
when the bees fly out tomorrow to look for sweetness
and find their way
because nothing else has changed.
Via Flastaff. Source
when you have news
walk down to tell them.
no, don’t pick up
that vulgar machine.
look them in the eye
and say the words.
consider the syllables.
do they colour
your steel gray memory
do they hang
like the smoke
from his cigar?
in their unknowing
he lives still,
until your words
take him away.
if only to delay
your own guilt,
walk down to tell them.
In the name of fighting terrorism governments across the world have been creating new regulations that infinitely augment the state power of surveillance with no meaningful public or parliamentary debate.
The Information Technology (Amendment) Bill, 2006 passed by the Indian Parliament recently allows the government to intercept messages from mobile phones, computers and other communication devices to investigate any offence. Not just cognizable offence, the kind you witnessed in Mumbai 26/11, but any offence.
Any email you send, any message you text are now open to the prying eyes of the government. So are the contents of your computer you surfed in the privacy of your home.
Around 45 amendments have been made to the original Act, which now treats both publishers of online pornography and its consumers on equal footing. A law so sweeping in its powers that it allows a police officer in the rank of a sub-inspector to walk in or break in to the privacy of your home and see if you were surfing porn or not. It’s the personal morality of the official that will decide whether the picture/content you were looking at was lascivious or appeals to prurient interest.
For worse go read the article. More information on Wikipedia.
The transition from melancholic
to a more cheery bucolic
is enough to make one
It is true fair readers, my
words seem uncommonly shy
of the expression jovial
or the metaphor convivial.
So forgive the lack of badinage
on this or any other page.
And yes, do feel free
to spoof, rip and parody
all the poems which are morose –
after all, they are open source!
You ask me for happy verse at the risk of receiving contrived rhyme such as this. Take heed.