Short Poems | And Don’t Show Us The Sky

The venerated God is sleeping.
in ten pegs’ zizz, the venerated?
God is slumbering.

The poor devotee who donated?
iron rods and cement for the?
playhouse of the temple?
under construction is in jail.
He needs to be released?
instantaneously with a clean chit.

The necromancer who offered?
the warm blood by throttling a?
virgin’s head needs to be appointed?
as principal of the local college.

The saviour who shattered?
the lotus grove needs to be?
facilitated in a huge crowd with?
lakhs of lotus garlands and mementoes.

Blood pressure is quite common
can God sleep in peace?
under lots of pressure? Stop the?
hymn, fools, cease the prayer!?

If he’s awakened by chance you’d?
be burnt off, flown off and?
drowned off like stubbles.

Hurry and go away putting the?
flowers and coconut there?
whatever offering you’ve brought;
don’t blow the conch, fool, stop the?
bell and double-headed drum!
??

And Don’t Show Us The Sky

It’s been a week now no food in the stomach,?
don’t show us the sky, the rainbow is?
just like an oasis in front of hunger.
As you say there’s neither hunger nor scream?
in the sky is an utter lie.
Do you watch how the bird which was?
flying high a moment before has flung down?
the land frantically for an insect?

There’s nothing except the land that?
germinates grass, sand mushrooms, flowers,?
ragi, mahua and fish.
There’s nothing except land where a shelter?
or a city can be built. Woe unto you that you?
glorify the sky while eating from the land
saying there’s neither dust nor dirt in the sky
but it’s all the charm.

You’ve seen filth on the land as flies do
whereas we’ve seen greenery on it. Do you?
know why? You’ve never loved the land.?
How could you? Like day and night, you’ve?
plotted to snatch that gold by hook or crook?
that we’ve harvested at the cost of our blood.?

To wear golden shoes and golden?
cross-thread, you’ve only robbed our food.?
It’s been a week now we’ve not eaten?
anything, don’t sing a lullaby to us?
no, no, don’t show us the sky.

If you think that you’d let us sleep?
to your lullaby, it’s a blunder.?
The lava of hunger never ceases?
in a lullaby; for your own good shut up,
get lost from here, go away and run.
If you play a game, bear in mind
hungry people are just like horrific tigers! ? ?

? ?
Television

There someone splashes the acid on the face?
of an unwilled dream.

Someone putting the gun on the shoulder of?
God threatens to sign the file.

Someone flames sweet poison from the tanpura.
Someone sells glitzy brands in the shopping mall.

There someone doles out colourful tears in the?
pandal of a mass meeting. Someone cleanses?

the mud of his shoes on the canvas.

While stepping out there someone
tries to measure his own shadow.

In panic, surprise and suspicion, children?
keep watching the screen of the television! ?

Kalahandi

Having not owned, wearing an over-sewed sari?
I was laying in a corner of my shanty.

The person who dragged me from my shanty?
to the middle of the village market?
who poked into the eyes of the spectators?

and declared that I was naked?
was called a self-styled journo, he
owns a double-storey duplex in the capital.

Who pursued the reasons for my being naked?
in the gluttonous books, who researched to find out?
the percentile of sugar and salt in my tears?

was called a researcher
who tamed his belly in the fellowship?
of the university grant commission.

The person who screamed pages of tears?
in the pain of my being naked, coined words?
to be called as a poet and received felicitation,?
memento and honour in the five-star hotel.

The person who roared and threatened?
to cut the hands off of the person who was the?
reason of my nakedness bowed at every?

crossroads to weave me a sari in his own hands
to be called as a benevolent leader and
received the crown and throne.

Thenceforth, I’ve been standing here in the middle?
of the market wearing an over-sewed sari; hanging?
my head down, blind and dumb: Kalahandi. ??

(Akhil Nayak (1970-2021) was a professor of Odia at Kalahandi University and an acclaimed Dalit writer. He had six collections of poetry, Gadhuabela, Gulikhati, Dhobapharaphara, Dheek, Abeeja and Kshetapurana and a novel, Bheda, to his credit. Pitambar Naik reads/edits Mud Season Review and Minute Magazine. His book of poetry, The Anatomy of Solitude, has been published by Hawakal)