poem, poetry

Ghosts of Freedom

I am not blind, no, I can see you
see you tear apart the scarf from her head,
I can see the bangles broken
Laying on the floor.
I can see your hand searching her,
her ripe bosom;
the lust in your eyes
is visible to me.
I can see the smile on your face,
full of disgusting pride you carry.

I can see, until I become one of those,
those hit with your pellets.
Those who can’t see!
And I will cease to see further.

But I will still be able to hear,
her screams,
the sound of the bangles falling upon the floor,
your laugh and furthermore,
the stories of my fellows;
seen with their eyes until every last
of them is hit with your pellets.

And when nobody is left
to hear or to see,
our ghosts will fight, for our
Aazadi*

*freedom

First published in WithKashmir.

poetry

It will pass!

Under the sordid sun we sat,
repugnant rays bathed our skins.
Black clouds in the distant sky,
overlooking a canopy of redwoods;
omen of what is to come.

‘Don’t speak, its prohibited,’
she muffled in my ears,
‘confine your words dear,
for, to speak is to boor’.
Hold! It may pass as well!

The wings of wax had melt,
and then Icarus rose no more.
And Phaethon fell to earth,
burning all it had, but then
it passed, as all things do.

For ashes of the martyrs
give birth to martyrs again.
And from tyranny arises-
tongues and arms and shoulders-
which turn the sun immaculate.

Painting_ Jacob Peter Gowy’s The Flight of Icarus

First published in Asian Speaks.

It may pass as well

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/