A Case of Identity

Tonight at a classical dance recital

                           symbolizing the eternal quest of the soul-force for God

I too raised for myself some questions

As I saw the dancer adopt body twisted

                                    beautifully gymnastic postures

 like a question mark put before me

                                    - who am I?

Am I the inquisitive streetwalker listening at pavements

                                   to snake charmers’ aphrodisiac calls,

watching indolently as the fast cycling rogue

whirling past knocks her off, squeezes her breasts,

                                        makes off

                     and leaves me to pacify her smothered adolescence.

Or am I the automaton

That hangs on to footboards and breezes past in fast trains

                                  every morning and evening

the only sensation left in me being in my hands

                                  holding on for dear life, and in my lips

wolf whistling as I swirl past platforms.

Or just the nimble fingers

                                typing away at jet-speed,

taking down bosses’ notes, thumbing

                               across wads of money,

                                hand shaking

with prospective customers.

Or just tongues, tongues and more tongues

with mounds and mounds of sugar and ghee and adulterated oils

                               pouring it all into unknowing ears

furthering business prospects

                              feeding everyone around in slow poison doses

and fattening on pure ghee, purity of expression, conscience.

So that I can decorate my drawing room with costly paintings and

                             upholstery

watch expensive dance recitals

                             and answer question marks once in a while.

 Ajai R. Singh

………………………………………………………..

More Smoke

In the hot sultry fiasco of damp

                                      enthusiasms

and silver rays in gloomy

                                     archives,

narcosis and the feeling

                                     of melting ice on frozen palms.

Arborescent shadows of sorrow

                                    in reminiscent silhouettes

the rain soaked evening

of pouring emotions

and grassy long walks on dripping

                                     pavements

 Seeking out each other.

Remember, my dear

the sweet faint lavender

                                    in the cleft of your breasts

hidden from the present and

posterity

                                    and the knowledge of transience.

Looking at the grey skies

                                    I think of clear blue water

and simmering passions

although

                                   I’ve heard

you’ve created a smoke screen

                                   from tall chimneys.