George Menezes » Poetry

BLOW-UP AT BHIWANDI

Menezes George — Thu, 26 Jun 2008 10:58:55 +0000

After the policemen
had stirred the sudden ashes
with their rifle butts,
peeled off their riot helmets
like tired ‘strippers’
at a lousy joint,
the town was quiet
In the morning
marijuanaed
with yesterday’s cries,
the Administration
took over,
Proclaiming
compensation
for the victims.
Circumcised
or otherwise.
And so she came
at the age of eight,
stating simply
that with religious fervour
she had been raped.
How does the
arithmetic
of compensation
work?

Will she be paid
with Gandhi’s picture
on the notes?
Will she be paid
ten bucks a piece
for her brave mother
drunken father
pregnant sister
and her sainted aunts
who died that night?
Will she be paid
for her baby brother
who must have wondered
why the nice man
from just across the street
was setting his bed on fire?

Will she be paid?
Or will her other
brother
rape
someone else’s
sister??

Fantasy

Menezes George — Mon, 16 Jun 2008 05:15:47 +0000

My finest fantasy is
That I shall never
Return
To Bombay, India.

That the jet carrying
Me
Would disintegrate
Like yesterday’s pill
In the gastric
Juices over Delaware,
My fat
Hanging
In the bird sanctuary
Outside your window
Waiting to be pecked.

Or better still,
The pilot going blind
Crashing gently
Over the Appalachian
Mountains
Where you walked.
May be someday,
Searching for migrating
Birds
You would find some bones
The band intact
With date.

“Here’s one”, you’d
tell your friends,
“who lost his way
Looking for the warm summers
from whence he came”.

Pilot’s Love Song

Menezes George — Fri, 13 Jun 2008 10:27:20 +0000

Against the nose
Of your navel
And the flat
Cockpit of your belly
Your pelvic bones
Stick out like a joy-stick
Of a single-seater
I flew long years ago.

Today, once again,
I am back on the
Runway
My first ever solo flight
The palms wet
The fever trickling
Down my thighs
Prematurely.

The engines throb
Like breasts
Touched
By a gentle hand.
I am cleared to take-off.

Have you ever
Been alone,
Held by the clouds
Touching the face of God
With nothing between you
But the instrument
Of your climbing?

Let me take you there
Caressing your horse-power.
Closer to the sun,
Till the wings begin
To melt upon us
As did those
of Icarus,

If I return
To get my pilot’s wings
Our return must be a fusion.
One cannot come
Without the other.

For Anjali

Menezes George — Thu, 29 May 2008 14:34:12 +0000

If we had waited, Anjali
You would never have come.
Angel of our deliverance.

And so we drove
A long, long way
Through dusty tracks
Asking directions to your Home.

We chose you
From a parched garden
Of sickly flowers
Where love was thinly
Spread
Like a blob of butter
Over a giant piece of bread
What else could the poor Sisters do?

You are part village
Part city.
Your whitewash exterior
Hiding lasting pastel shades.

Warm as city roads
In summer
Open as a field
Full of wild flowers,
And as vulnerable.

Be careful child
Of our chosen dreams

For Christophe

Menezes George — Thu, 29 May 2008 14:32:09 +0000

You came, Christophe
When hope was lost.
Though hope is never lost
When doctors
Peering into crevices
And nodding knowingly
Over the scent of semen,
Said you would not be born.

You are a child
Of the woods
Around the Parisian home
Where your mother and I
Lay in the tall grass
Watching the ripples
On the duck-pecked pond.

You are mysterious
Like the woods.
Cold winters and warm summers
Merging
In a gentle sort of way
Strong legged
Your long silences
Leading to paths
That you alone will tread.

Whistle if you feel lost
We have walked that path
Before.

Unanswered Question

Menezes George — Tue, 27 May 2008 05:37:37 +0000

On other days you bring your steno’s pad
And your half silence, half a girlish smile.
Today you brought a wound you never had
And took dictation standing half a mile.
Yes, wounds to me are quite familiar things
I too have seen too many people die
Jammed in cockpits shorn of youthful wings
Scattered flesh like confetti in the sky.
Yet there are types of wounds the ones that bled
Hung on a cross betwixt a foe and friend;
Or one which from a motorcade that sped
Did snatch a brilliant President to his end.
What wound is yours? Was it a friendly breeze
That kissed your gentle temple in a chase?
Was it the whisper of the naughty trees
That left their “batik” imprint on your face?

I can conjecture, I can only ask,
An answer is a gift one cannot steal
I cannot tear the silence of your mask,
I cannot cure what only time can heal.