Treasure Island

Bijay Kant Dubey

While Passing Through The Road I Often Meet The Music Director

While passing through the road, I often come across the music directors,
I mean the panelist judges,
The court judges not, last benchers with night class B.Ls. promoting themselves not,
But the music directors,
The judges for a musical contest,
Who in the beginning used to keep themselves reserved
For money-earning and prestige issue,
But now on marking the popularity of the small screen and live shows
They too aspiring to be judges,
To be in the public,
You just them,
How do they look, powdered or unpowdered?

Yes, what was I saying, about the judges, it came to, came to me,
While passing through the roadways, I often meet,
Meet them, I mean the music directors
With the wires plugged into the ears,
The ear-phones into,
The music is going on
And he rocking,
Wherever be he, on the motorcycle or the ground,
He listening to music
And is smiling like a half-mad man
And is absent-minded and lost
In his musical world.

In the ganjee and the jeans pants, I mean the tight-tight clothes,
With the dark sunglasses on the eyes,
The wires plugged into
And he listening to music
And smiling,
Sometimes gives lips to
As the judges do,
Hearing seriously and lightly,
Tapping the things,
Exclaiming and expressing,
The mind lifted to,
Hearing soulfully

But he is a loafer, an anti-social, a headless fellow
Just in the jeans and the ganjee,
With nothing in the mind
To think and brood over,
Just song, music and dance,
Eat, drink and be merry,
The vision of his life,
A burden on his father and mother,
Just laundering money,
Living meaninglessly,
Like the noisy and meaningless musicians and singers,
Singing and dancing meaninglessly.

Eating in the father’s hotel,
Doing adda there
With his loafer friends
Aping the loafer stars,
Not twinkle, twinkle stars,
But duplicate stars.

Eating in the father’s hotel,
Rambles he on a rambler brand motorcycle
In a care-free mood,
Free of cost,
Running on petrol, not water
On white money, never black money,
Wasting father’s hard-earned money.

Hearing the thrilling music, with the bands
Distinguished and different,
Imitating the foreign musicians and their tracks,
He shaking the body, nodding the head,
Going on the motorcycle,
Like a panelist judge, a music director
And who knows that he cannot be?

Going as a storm, nearer to be a tornado, but is not,
The hero in the sunglasses
And a cigar on the lips,
I mean the music director,
The disco jockey, the anchorman, the adman,
The desire of his to be,
Cherished for so long
As cinematography has taught and trained our boys and girls.

Submitted: Thursday, August 08, 2013
Edited: Wednesday, August 28, 2013

Do you like this poem?
0 person liked.
0 person did not like.

Read this poem in other languages

This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.

I would like to translate this poem »

word flags

What do you think this poem is about?

Comments about this poem (While Passing Through The Road I Often Meet The Music Director by Bijay Kant Dubey )

Enter the verification code :

There is no comment submitted by members..

Top Poems

  1. Phenomenal Woman
    Maya Angelou
  2. The Road Not Taken
    Robert Frost
  3. If You Forget Me
    Pablo Neruda
  4. Still I Rise
    Maya Angelou
  5. Dreams
    Langston Hughes
  6. Annabel Lee
    Edgar Allan Poe
  7. If
    Rudyard Kipling
  8. I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings
    Maya Angelou
  9. Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
    Robert Frost
  10. Invictus
    William Ernest Henley Updates

New Poems

  1. hasrat, Ashutosh ramnarayan Prasad K ..
  2. moti, Ashutosh ramnarayan Prasad K ..
  3. Real Help, Edgar Albert Guest
  4. Onverflauwd groen en blauw-wit, Madrason writer
  5. गुलाब और सूरज, Ashutosh ramnarayan Prasad K ..
  6. misfortune, oskar hansen
  7. Terminus, Concedo Nulli, Guillermo Veloso
  8. George Moir Black, Edgar Albert Guest
  9. The Spoiler, Edgar Albert Guest
  10. The Wide Outdoors, Edgar Albert Guest

Poem of the Day

poet Henry Lawson

The old year went, and the new returned, in the withering weeks of drought,
The cheque was spent that the shearer earned,
and the sheds were all cut out;
...... Read complete »


Member Poem

[Hata Bildir]