Thursday, August 14, 2008

Wires and Veins



Throbbing, the life in my veins,
pulsing with data streaming unknown,
in wires buried bellow the dead man’s grave.
The corpse-like towers shouldering the power grid;
current surging overhead to light up distant suburbs,
bringing to life the lights, the ovens, the heaters-
while the dead still lie cold below.

A million voices raging in torrents
of silent telephone lines chaining continents;
cables under sea, fences on land.
Pain, joy and guilt mingling below stagnant waters
and strange the bond connecting wrong numbers;
The satellites whirling above have ears for all,
where then to pour my taboo silence?

Insipid stares judge me over pale corridors,
walking, running, falling, and walking again,
like involuntary sirens of the temple sounding the bell.
So many faces; some staring from the one eyed beast,
too many it seems, usurping my bedroom linen,
like the predicted storm breaking uninsured houses,
blowing away my distorted paperback identity.

The windows gaping curious at my grey baggage,
the blind weather dictating my daily wear;
my washing machine setting the shade of my white.
Deep inside this polluted air of indifference,
my lungs stain with blood the hanging curtains of rain,
yet I shy from the needles, and rather take the pen,
my ink bleeding over countless pregnant thoughts.

Throbbing, the silence in my veins,
charting freedom over dissimilar railway lines;
so many embracing the global emptiness.

By: Abhishek Ranjan Datta, BA English Hons. (IIIrd year)

"NIHILIST TOM"

SOMEONE IN THIS ROOM WILL KILL ME

SO CONSIDERATELY

FORGET MY NAME

AND POINT THE TABLE-KNIFE AT ME

JUST SO AS TO EXPRESS GIFT-WRAPPED SOLIDARITY

OVERBUILT SHADOWS

THESE FRIENDLY, WAVERLY SHAPES

DISTANT, ARE TISK-TISKING

THEIR MESMERIC PRYING EYES

THE CLAMOUR OF THEIR RANTING

BUT, AT THIS TABLE, THERE IS HOPE

IN SURRENDERED SOLITUDE THERE, EMBEDDED IN THE SEA

THERE IN THAT DAWDLING BOAT

OR PERHAPS IN THAT CAR CRASH

THE TASTE LINGERS ON

BUT, IM GLAD YOU COULD MAKE IT

WAVING LIKE A FRANTIC WHORE

SQUEALING LIKE A PUNCTURED TUBE

BUT, ALAS THEN I MAY HAVE,

I MAY HAVE DEAFENED YOU TO ME

SOMEONE IN THIS ROOM WILL KILL ME

I WANT TO BE TESTED

WHEN THE WHOLE WORLD IS PIGEON-CHESTED.


By: R. Ishaan, BA History Hons. (IIIrd Year)

Another forum for expression

This is the blog maintained by the Literary Society of Ramjas College. Members are welcome to publish their written work on this blog by mailing it to the Litrerary Society email address (litsoc.ramjas@gmail.com).