Why Do Men Cry?

Why Do Men Cry?

Why do men cry?
O, but men do not cry.
Ooops, my bad, wrong question!
Of course men do not cry;
how else can they be called the man?

 

I meant to ask, why do male humans weep.
For grief, you say, alright and pain,
sorrow, loss, or by any other name
we may call a heartache?
Perhaps, in brief, for all the reasons a female
human might? But of course
the social construct known as Man,
the very image of God, it is often claimed,
how can it cry and still maintain
its self-imposed godliness; no, men do not cry!

 

Rather, men prefer to hunt, and plunder,
and men would love to shed their blood and die,
for a cause they have decided to believe,
and often loot and rape, upholding the said cause!

 

But woe! The thing men truly love
in their hearts, more than all of these combined,
is the role as writers of what
the definition of a woman ought to be!

 

So, of course men can never cry.
But female humans can become men too
and in shame, the man in male humans too can die!


 

An Elegy for the Sons of Abraham

An Elegy for the Sons of Abraham

Dedicated to the Lives sacrificed/slaughtered,
around the world everyday

 

Finally, I could look into the eyes
of someone I would soon kill and rejoice,
feasting on his flesh and bones, cooked and fried!
How hard it was, you really want to know?
How hard it was for Abraham, when he
looked into the eyes of his eldest son,
before dragging him to the holy mound?
Oh! How absurdly fortunate I am,
being the eldest son of a Semite too,
that God had replaced the boy with a ram!
Or surely, two billion people every year
would have been deprived of an eldest son,
and the proverbial blackest sheep to blame!
Woe! When will these bellowing deaths be gone?


 

Dissection of Solitude*

Dissection of Solitude*

At last, the culture smells matured enough.
Let us begin our dissection of Solitude!
But can we pry open its skin,
scale-like, hardened, withered by time,
with a scalpel, regardless of how sharp it is?

Let us assume that we can, and let us
do that with our unhurried, unshaken thoughts.
You might ask, “What if it dies?” Aye,
I would say, Death becomes us all, someday!

I am more worried though, when we look inside –
do we look at pure Solitude per se!
Is it Solitude like that of a hermit sage?
Or is it a mere exposition of a state
that might leave its startled soul blind in a seething rage?


* Thank You

Love, Death, Rebirth…

Love, Death, Rebirth…

I can see your face,
yet we are so far apart.
I can feel your touch,
though our fingers are not intertwined.
I can smell you in the air,
even when there is no wind.
I can hear your footsteps echoing
through the corridors of my heart,
while I know you have always walked
on a different plain.

 

I’m enraged, feeling abandoned,
little bittersweet but confused above all-
why bitter and what on earth could have made it sweet?
Have these sensations, both heavy and venomous,
been making my tongue taste like lead?
Does your emptiness make me incomplete?

 

I do not know anything, and even trying
feels like an ocean too wide for me –
an ocean, I feel no more
strong enough to sail across and see
what is waiting on the other side,
but I know in my heart that I have to be,
unbroken and untamed, with an astute resilience.
So I spread my fiery wings and rise,
like a Phoenix, from the ashes of all my deaths
in your indifference, and soar into the sky!


 

My Roving Brain

My Roving Brain

For K. Azz. on her Birthday

 

“Happy, happy wishes for you, my friend…”
Sings a voice from inside my roving brain,
another wails like a time ravaged soul,
“But will you and have we ever be old?”

 

I thought I had killed both Prometheus and his dreams,
long ago and buried them deep down the rocky ground
that I thought my mind and heart had become, but woe
they were only suspended in a cryogenic sleep!

 

“Have they begun to stir now from their slumbering?”
Yet another voice asks, inside my head,
in harmony with the song, still being sung,
“… and wishing many many joyous returns,
may your thoughts grow wiser still with each day,
but may your heart remain forever young…”

 

Meanwhile, a thousand more voices, both low and high,
keep voicing their own concerns, not in whispers though
but each trying to have the floor only for itself,
trying to be the lone voice that can be heard.
Sometime one succeeds and I hear a word or two,
mostly though, it is just a noise, both pure and white.

 

Then Prometheus opened his large and dreamy eyes,
and the world knew, this god-man who had brought fire down
to the succeeding rulers of earth as their crown,
was much, much less troubling than his insolent dreams.
(It was one of those that made him do what he did,
to coronate humans as future queens and kings.)

 

“What! He walks now? Kill him! Kill him!” cries another,
shrieking like a spinster, one too many times wronged.
“Kill him! Kill him now, I say, before he can come
and make you like him with a bare touch!” She carried on.

 

Then I could hear his footsteps in my head,
approaching me, the sound was drawing near.
I could not help but shrink, being too afraid,
for I had dreamed before and met its sneer.
Suddenly I caught a flash, wheezing by;
was it a real spear thrown by Death himself?
Perhaps it was all a dream, a figment
of my restless imagination, soaring high,
so high, the sun has melted its feathers down
and now it must fall to its uncharted grave!

 

The silence that followed was far more deafening!
All the voices stopped and their complains too,
even the one singing to my friend took a pause,
that was not what I had thought in the beginning!

 

In that silence I realized the footsteps,
I had shrunk from in my fear for the coming days,
was ringing no more through the corridors
of my roving brain. I grew wary for the man.
In desperation I searched all over the realm
of my thoughts for mighty Prometheus and his dreams;
all in vain! No body was found and no blood stains!

 

Nevertheless, the silence made me look outside,
past the grid of iron bars on my balcony
and the sky was silver blue from the glowing moon,
the wind smelling fresh from few recent bouts of rain.

 

And at last, a single voice, the one that sang, resumed
singing the remainder of the song to my friend.
The melody filled my heart with a light again,
“We are what we are not despite but because of
our ways, unfit, perhaps for our time or this place,
perhaps there is a grander scheme, or there is naught!
Still we must fight each day and night, with blood and tear –
growing stronger than we were yesterday.
I wish you may find courage in these humble, rugged lines
my dear friend, to blossom anew each and every year!”