poetry

Flying to Byzantine

There is no country for young. The old,
in the parliaments, birds in cages,
– Those budding generations- at their fluttering,
the flesh-markets, the beggar-crowded streets
drugs, dope or douche, sting all summer long
whatever is brought, is sold and eaten,
caught in that agonic music, all meditate upon
monuments of aging sensuality.

A young man is but a poultry thing,
a tattered hen upon a grill, unless,
age claps it’s hand and mourn, and louder mourn,
for every tatter will be old hence,
nor is there a mourning school but meditating,
monuments of its own scornful surplus,
and therefore I have flown over the sky and come,
the fuckin city of fluctuatinople.

O morons sleeping in Satan’s hells’s fire,
as in the stone carving of caves,
come from the hell’s fire, prene is a gyre,
consume my passions away, sick with desire,
and fastened to an enthusiastic beast,
it knows not what to do, and transform me,
into an old man of wit, treason and lust,

And then I’ll fly back, and will take,
a chair in the parliament of owls,
and such a chair, as was of Lucifer’s Bilail
of accumulated power and seven sins,
to keep a drowsy public enticed,
or set upon the golden bed to rejoice,
to my life full of greed, and lust,
of what is past, or passing, or to come.

published in The Criterion Journal,

poetry

By the road i stood

I stood watching,
watching where we are,
watching where we were.

By the road I stood
gasping, struggling,
reminding myself of Kashmir.

Where people were humane,
where discrimination was taboo,
where brotherhood prevailed,
where harmony ruled,
where corruption was a crime.

What could be done,
was done without money,
what couldn’t be done,
was never done with money.

By the road I stood,
it was not a common day,
cause Kashmir was missing,
cause Kashmir was lost.

Published in Kashmir Life, 2014

poem, poetry

Ideas

An imagination, a thought
embroiled in a simmering flame
an ocean of raindrops.

Kohl spread under the eyes
and amongst them a nada
a seed buried, waiting to erupt.

Which would have bloomed.

But who’ll water it,
who’ll filter the weed,

that lives off its share
stealing it’s air and water.

poetry

Dissent

Sickles, spades, stones, sticks!
I cry dissent; they hear hatred.
I bleed nauseously and ooze panic,
they rub me with pellets and bullets,
to close my wound, they welt my skin.

Sickles, spades, stones, sticks!
I paint dissent; they see hatred.
I eat grief and breathe pain,
they feed me laws and rules,
to fill my stomach, they keep me hungry.

Sickles, spades, stones sticks!
I write dissent, they read hatred.
I hear mumbles and whispers of despair,
they sing me fire and pepper gas lullabies,
to tune my ear, they pierce my drums.

Sickles, spades, stones, sticks!

Pic by Paul Becker by CC2

First published in Inverse Journal

https://www.inversejournal.com/2020/04/06/i-write-dissent-they-read-hatred-by-bupinder-singh/

poetry, video

Yeh Hidustan hai Bawa, Yahan Sab Chalta hai

 

This poem is written and performed by Wahid Rathore. A member of Unfound Family. He pursuing his Engineeing degree. He is poet and a singer also.

In this poem he mentioned the current situation of our country based on his personal experiences and how he was stopped by police only for having a beard and long hairs.

poetry

Isabella!!

unbroken journal issue 3
Octuber; a cold month trees shed their cloths and sun its light. Isabella and me we ran together to seek a
shelter. Octuber is cold it rains outside; social and political together; raindrops. The trees shed their
leaves some yellow and some still green and the sunlight it grows lighter, colder, and darker. And me
and isabella walked through these leaves crushing them under our feet. The sunlight didnt touch us but
some leaves have thorns and her feet bleed and some rays are harsher
and her skin burned. The
raindrops soothed us; emotional. Social and political; drenched us. Isabella and me still found a shelter,
a safer place, a stone stands there. Octuber is a cold month but we are safe me and isabella now lay asleep.
©Fidoic 2015, first published in Unbroken Journal, Issue 3
poetry

Cartoons.

UnlostCartoons are easy,
To mock
Create one yourself.
An activist in sex trafficking,
Or two countries at Odds
For your consideration,
A free tote bag.
In conversation with Trump
At the house of Nightmares.
To mock.
Cartoons are easy.

(c)fidoic2015
first published in Unlost Journal, Issue 3.