Pinaki Dewan

Veteran Poet - 1,452 Points (24-09-1997 / India)

The Purpose Of Hate - Poem by Pinaki Dewan

Hate is a dead thing
who of you would like to be a tomb? *

Hate tilts its head like a child following the climber following the sun
through the rusted rails
as a gun-faced cloud wails
eyeing the barren turf sighing against the foreign wind
and says, 'The world is destined to end.'

...now I am haunted by that taste
that sound… *

He writes upon the wall, upon her breasts, upon his arteries, upon the morning mist, upon love with the nectared dagger of hate

He scrubs his soiled feet with bloodied hate

He turns pages caressing the whiteness not with love but hate

Hate lies curling in my bed like another myself splintering to give itself the warmth of a flame
heaving in disconsolate, lugubrious rhythms: it wishes to replicate the heart, which it knows it can never be.

Late night, prayer rugs are thrown at me from listful skies;
The stars expect a kind of invocation, though I am all lies.

Day arrives smelling of birds and smoke, there is a call:
Do what you want but do not expect me to want you.

We've been standing on doormats since ages, expecting the doors to be locked:
The doors were open, but we don't want a look inside now do we?

The floors pick up the screams and tears,
Keep them neatly stacked in their nooks.

Hate crawls in like a leech, hovers in like a mosquito trying to suck the blood of attachments.

Hate hangs from the mind like spiders from the corners of an abandoned godown.

Hate goes around raving in abandoned alleys, hunting for intelligent ears and anarchic minds,
Finds none, knocks on a dilapidated door, enters to a moth-eaten milieu and a reliclike draft,
Sits on a tatterdemalion chair, smokes a cigarette and vanishes in the vapour released.

Infatuation strikes as a sudden butterfly
in the middle of the street
when you're in a hurry with no time to marvel the beauty
but it blocks your path
dancing in occult movements
and you need to somehow cross it but can't
and you're stuck, in a hurry, in no proper mind to be infatuated
and you fall back
fall back in your own blood
as it curdles like annoyance, like hate.

There is enough light for the blind,
None for the determined,
While the dubious walk behind,
The sanguine get fined.

You punish the street-ends, accuse the streamlined,
But I know only the defined:
Night resurrects not in the mind,
It does in the entwined.

Hate is a guitar thrown carefully on the bed
so it makes just two false notes
in equal harmony

Hate is friable
crushed into gunpowder
or poison
all you need is will and malice

enough to kill and vanish
for hate lasts only a gunshot
and a croak
time is crucial when it's got to do with hate

(And then the world fell off like a chrysalis,
and doom, the butterfly, full-fledged roamed.)

Loneliness strikes the eyes, like a blacksmith strikes an empty anvil, and the fire flows like a prolonged shadow that hate lost in its travel into the night.

Mistakes I've made since birth:
being born, being born a girl,
learning to make my own
independent choices,
falling in love and marrying the man I loved.

He had eyes like a lily
and like a lily those eyes died
after just one night.

His footsteps clangor still like cracking fire
leaving, leaving a burning hole in my heart.

My daughter as she grew up
learnt to mull her blues like wine
took off one day with a junkie.

Now, she sues me for alimony
and I flow like a river every other day
in the arms of some stone-cold stranger
for whom wealth's no priority against seclusion
and thus, I make my stand abying as a whore
while her demands grow more and more.

A poplar white, a sky beyond sight, I see.

It is in the welts of the earth,
In the screams of birth, I see.

Hate has no darts
To pierce the heart.

My head, like the street plodded by uncertain feet, stares once at the sky, and then dies.

Hate whispers sweet nothingness in the ear of the gray cloud:
It has this lavish, gratuitous desire to bathe in rain.

Hate is a concealed piece of gold

it has no price but a price is created by its absence

I wish to lave in hate
for a tomb of gold is better than a tomb of mud
Life is a tomb.

Neither is hate a necessary evil nor is it an unnecessary good

it is a foreskin, keep it, circumcise it, all up to you, or perhaps your religion.

Life as we know it is a pellet comprising of a little love and a little hate, which we nearly always throw against the lake-water to see if it can leapfrog its indifference

let hate be a bird
let it fly against the current
let it get struck by lightning

let yourself embrace the sparks

let yourself be a firework
against the darkness of the sky

it is in this heedful concern that meaning can be created.

Topic(s) of this poem: feminism, hate, life and death, philosophy, purpose

Form: Free Verse


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Poem Submitted: Saturday, April 28, 2018

Poem Edited: Monday, October 29, 2018


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