Tag: SNAPSONGS

  • SNAPSONGS 199

    SNAPSONGS 199

    Warflames (1)

    Humanity must perforce prey on itself,

    Like monsters of the deep*.

    Once again, old scars have festered

      Into new wounds. Snakes half scorched

    Are hissing like lethal drones in sleepless nights

         Resurgent madness contains the streets

    Warflames in the Middle East

         Warflames in the Black Sea basin

    Lethal rockets in the evening sky like

         Christmas fireworks of careless children

    Towers tumble like hapless matchboxes

         Sane streets twist into a metal mesh

    Beneath the rubble which now rules the roads,

         Aloud, the inaudible screams of 

    The dead, the living-dead

         Whose living rooms have suddenly

    Turned into fiery graves; countless babies

         Whose corpses coil like question marks

    Between the benighted pages

         Of crushing concrete slabs. Whole cities

    Pummeled into toxic powder: this glittering

         Race back to medieval darkness

    Those who roast in this blaze are just

         A fatal fraction of a world undone by its heat

    From the Black Sea to the Mediterranean

         Fishes fry in broiling waters

    Humanity must perforce prey on itself,

    Like monsters of the deep*.

    “The extraordinary majesty of our ordinance!”

         Exclaims a tv news anchor, his eyes aglow

    With patriotic fervour. ”Our men will do it in no time

         And be back here in the shortest order”

    A truly majestic night it was  

    Read Also: Fed Govt launches release of 4,068 inmates 

         With the awe in the ordinance wreaking hell

    Under another sky: wasted cities, damaged dreams

         The widowing, orphaning majesty of

    Blind bombs and their blinder makers

         Arrogant arogunyo* for whom

    Bloody war is video game

         Whose endless thirst is watered

    By tears from foreign fronts

         The armoury is full

    The rockets are rocking

         The banks overflow with crimson profit

    Endless cycles of senseless wars 

         Of partial peace-brokers

    With broken Truth between their teeth

         Striving to douse little fires with bigger ones

    They nail Justice to the Cross

         Then wonder why Violence never leaves their doorsteps

    They who only bow in the Temple of Power

         To the cannibal majesty of Supreme Awedinance

    * William Shakespeare   King Lear, Act 4, Scene 2.     

    ** War monger

                     (Continued next week)

  • SNAPSONGS

    Again, here cometh The Grand Imperial Braggart

    “I don’t have a racist bone

    In my body”, proclaimed

    The Braggart Emperor. His lie

    Sent the wind into a sickening spell

     

    Not a single racist bone,

    He screamed again

    The wondering world heard

    And broke into tearful laughter

     

    Yes, no racist bone

    The pious proclamation thundered

    Through steamy detention centers

    Swarming with dire, degraded migrants

     

    “Shithole countries”

    “Rapist, crime-infested” migrants

    “Good-people” Nazis

    Nasty “Jihad Squad”

     

    Hear these praise-names

    And exalt the Emperor

    Incomparable Statesman

    Utterly allergic to truth and love

     

    “No racist bone”

    In my body

    Hence my one obsessive dream:

    MAKE AMERICA WHITE AGAIN (MAWA)

  • SNAPSONGS 23

    Having been sane for one magic moon

    Who says we are not entitled

    To a season of madness?

    Ask the jinx in our furious frenzy

     

     

    We are all devotees of that Egyptian goddess*

    Who moulded Truth from its myriad fragments

    Variegated verity confounds the mind

    The Temple of Falsehood reverts to basic dust

     

     

    Truth falls from the sky

    And bounces off the earth like a seasoned gymnast

    Falsehood lands with a thud

    And scatters into implacable pieces

     

     

    I wonder through rainbow-windowed churches

    And mosques with golden domes

    I long for what is right

    But my search ends in an empty chase

     

     

    Let the collar choke the Pastor

    Who swallows the laity’s tithes

    And builds castles of fraud

    With the bones of fickle faithfuls

     

     

    Let the turban twist the neck

    Of that mimic Mullah

    Whose sermons redden the streets

    With fear and deadly orgies

     

    • Reference to the Egyptian myth of Osiris
  • SNAPSONGS 22

    Some think

    They are too young to live

    Others think

    They are too old to die

     

     

    Life’s riddle is a rolling stone

    Which gathers all the moss

    Today’s magic answers

    May twine into tomorrow’s confounding puzzles

     

     

    The Universe is a drum

    Beat it with a tender stick

    When you walk the road to the Future

    Don’t wear a shoe of thorns

     

     

    The cloud plays around the face of the sky

    Some think it is an idle bubble

    When they go on their journey of unknowing

    A busy rain will drench their homeward route

     

     

    When singing Life’s song

    Do not open your mouth too wide

    A big fat toad once jumped

    Into the throat of a careless braggart

     

    We all know the man behind the mask

    When we say we do not

    We are only faithful acolytes

    Of the god of Let’s-Pretend

  • SNAPSONGS 16 (a few knotty questions for Eden)

    SNAPSONGS 16 (a few knotty questions for Eden)

    If Eden was so benign

    What was the Serpent doing on its tree

    From where did it derive its venom

    Who was its teacher in the school of deceit?

     

    Who gave Satan so much power

    Why was the Gardener

    So far from his garden

    Who planted that Tree with the Forbidden Fruit?

     

    In what strange language

    Did the Serpent cajole its audience

    What adjectives adorned its nouns

    How dire, the adversity of its adverbs?

     

    Did the Serpent sing a song

    Some slippery sonnet, a seductive aria

    A ballad full of bees and butterflies

    Or a lullaby with a sweet and singular scent?

     

    Hun un, and when our Father beheld

    Our Mother in her smooth original skin

    Did he conjure any wet idioms

    For that vernacular moment?

     

    Who authored the first embrace

    Who divined the first consent

    What electricity of primal being

    Powered the glow of the Original Sin?

  • SNAPSONGS 15

    Do not allow your Self

    To run beyond your Instinct

    Nor ever let your Instinct

    Run beyond your Self

     

    Do not allow Desire

    To bring your Dream to grief

    Never let that Dream

    Laugh Desire to scorn

     

    The heart which hates

    And the heart that loves

    Live all the time like Siamese twins

    Awaiting the parting edge of the knife of Conscience

     

    Who will part the Famous Madonna?

    From her Mirror Eternal

    Vanity’s arrow is long and sharp

    But sometimes blunt in its eyeless flight

     

    So much to see here

    But, alas, we left our eyes at home

    The elephant has fallen

    In a town with absent knives

     

    Once upon a time

    Wine and Water were best of friends

    That was long before they lost

    That bonding to a drought called Desire

     

  • SNAPSONGS 18

    Will the carpenter

    Eat sawdust for dinner

    Will the laundryman

    Drown in the sewer of his trade?

     

    Will the butcher

    Slice up his biceps for sale

    Will the barber weave a wig

    From the clump of fallen hairs

     

    Arigisegi* labours through

    Its mountain of sticks

    The house which springs from his labour

    Will always be its unintended prison

     

    The swamp swears

    It has nothing to do with the rain

    The sky is listening

    Another dry August is coming with mortal lessons

     

    “I owe you nothing”.

    Said the brainless son to his mother

    “I could have born myself

    If only I had a womb”

     

    If Fortune gives you a voice

    Use it with quiet wisdom

    The ears of the world

    Never brook a blatant blast

  • SNAPSONGS 17

    (…. And a King was on the throne of his mind, Whose name was Grand Unknowing……)

    I do not know
    What it is he has done
    But I hate him all the more for it
    With a passion hotter than hell-fire
    I do not know
    What he has in mind
    But I already loathe the sound
    Of his un-spoken words

    I do not know
    Who he has for a friend
    But I am already scared
    Of that un-present person

    I do not know
    What she wants to cook
    But I hate the smell
    From a thousand miles away

    I have never read
    A line by him
    But I know for sure
    His work is total trash

    I do not know
    And I do not want to know
    There is no chink
    In the shield of my absolute Unknowing

  • SNAPSONGS 16 (Melodious Miscellany)

    The Valley has a thousand lessons

    To teach the Mountain

    Some nights are brighter

    Than the clearest day

     

    What is rice

    If not grass with golden grains

    A lobster is another scorpion

    With a harmless tail

     

    The master’s fanciest dream

    Is a nightmare for the slave

    A house built for the pigeon

    May not be a pretty home for the partridge

     

    God created the world

    In seven days

    On the very next day

    He laid the foundation of another one

     

    The bag of wisdom

    Swings in the open air

    Only a few gifted hands

    Can reach its baffling bottom

     

    A rich, melodious miscellany

    The songs of the seasoned bard

    The long, the short, the sweet and very bitter

    Jostle for place in a symphony of the seasons

  • SNAPSONGS (Ode to Kleptocrats III)

    The money which should have built our schools

    Is heaving in the Governor’s bank account

    Our children roam the streets

    Like orphans and futureless urchins

     

    The billions voted for healthcare

    Are multiplying in the Minister’s hide-aways

    Common ailments rake us up like hapless leaves

    The morgues are full to their stinking brim

     

    They budgeted crazy figures for public roads

    Sharing them up in their nocturnal caucus

    Expressways are thoroughfares

    To a gross and speedy death

     

    The sums saved up for housing

    Have vanished into the Senator’s mansion

    The only roof above our heads

    Is the sky and its merciless rains

     

    Our seed yams now sleep in our rulers’ stomachs

    A needless hunger harasses our sleep

    Our sacred fountainhead of all the ages

    Is a reeking mountain of their solid waste

     

    Unhappy the land ruled by thieves

    Beyond simple decency, unfazed by shame

    We, the camels ridden so rough,

    Must learn how to kick and how to howl