January Poem by KATOCH P C K PREM

JANUARY

I think of nuts
and sweets
before bonfire of future
sometimes pensive and afraid
in a jingle of facts
that evade happy days.

It is fire
and around all stand and all
pray and sing
for long life
awaiting cheerful times
it is vacant
red and blue
burning and warm
here you recollect pledges
in absolute drudgery
painful eyelids remain cautious
hearing singing of minstrels
and folklores among children
drummed into ears
with vulgar
gestures
of vagabonds
with clumsy hands.

And the old Ma
who related a broken story
of years bygone
under bullets and fires
it heralded another day
a big bouncing experience
total yet fragments
again to little pieces of wood
as crimson as a setting sun.

Slowly growing in the west
on a cloudless sky
under cover of blue
where thrust of stars
attenuate flapping
and lazily moving wings
in squeezing flow of air
and incoming heat
all concentrated chemical rush
thrusting into a cold bedroom.

With hissing sounds of serpents
instilling fear and awe
for it is burnt up.

Nature played with the words
figuring purity.

Dancing with little sticks
away from electric heat
to perform
a ritual of understanding
and sinister expectations.

It is Lohri
it is begging of goodwill
undefined charity
disbursing casual prayers
in tiny pieces
and small smiles.

It is beating of heat
amidst cold
Past runs fast
It is forgotten
no natural calamity
To claim compensation.

It happens inertly
like a child it plays
with dust to fun
with awakened movements
and in circles.

No prayers in haunting churches
no bells in temples full
it is theft
amazing statues in jewelers' hands
blessings Gods
in hands of thieves.

World moves
in proverbial hope
that one day goodwill shall envelop
a particle of light shall enlighten
darkrooms of luxuries
but it is cold
bonfire around is a waste.
Cheers are spiritless
as roads with moth eaten lamp posts
lead to no destination.

It is a clash of fishes
in a tank
remotely nursed by mouths
that shall eat the tank one day.
nobody can expect an escape
in outbursts excruciating
of words with lost letters
and writers remain ghosts.

It is a cultural ant
making hills
carried on gusty winds
when walls strike heads
heads that lost count
on winter's night
breaking nuts without purpose
a perpetual dilemma
when man refuses to accept
his destiny.
(Oracles of the Last Decade 1998)