Samosa Politics: A Poem by Sukhinder

smosf pfilitks


rfjnIqI nUM asIN

aKMz pfTF, smoisaF aqy aOirMj jUs qwk

sIimq krky rwK idwqf hY-

sMsd df mYNbr cuxy jfx AuWqy

asIN, mihjL, ies krky hI

sMsd Bvn dy aMdr jfx qoN

ienkfr krI jFdy hF

sfzI iqMn PuwtI qlvfr

sfzy nfl, aMdr jfx dI

iejfjLq ikAuN nhIN

-ieh smJx qoN asmrwQ ik

sMsd ivwc bolx leI

jLubfn dI loV pvygI

qlvfr dI nhIN

mIzIaf dI aflocnf df

inq insLfnf bnx dy bfvjLUd, asIN

Dfrimk kwtVvfd dy rMgF ‘c rMgy

PnIar swpF vFg, Pn PYlf ky

dhfVn ivwc hI

PLKr mihsUs krdy hF

-ieh smJx qoN kory ik

ajoky simaF ivwc

rfjnIqIvfn bnx leI

pihlF vDIaf mnuwK

bnxf pvygf

-mUMhF ivwc ivs Goldy

PnIar swp nhIN

sfzI cyqnf ivwc aMikq ho cuwkI

ipRXf nyqf bnx dI pRIBfsLf

BMg, crs, krYk, kukyn df

nfmI smglr hoxf hI hY

-ieh mihsUs krn qoN asmrwQ

ik afpxy aijhy kfrnfimaF sdkf

asIN jnsmUh dI Gor qbfhI

kr rhy hovFgy

sfzf vs cwly, qF

asIN, ijLMdgI nfl sbMDq

hr pihlU nUM hI

iBRsLt rfjnIqI dI

cfsLnI ivwc zbo ky

swpF dIaF KuwzF

mgrmwCF dy jubfiVaF

rMzIaF dy cubfiraF

zrwg smglrF dy awizaF

blfqkfrI bfibaF dy zyiraF

ivwc qbdIl kr dyeIey

ikMnf kuJ bdl igaf hY

prf-afDuink simaF ivwc

rfjnIqI dy sMklp nUM

asIN, iks hwd qwk

sIimq krky rwK idwqf hY

-suiKMdr

poet_sukhinder@hotmail.com

(mfltn, meI 5, 2008)

Comments

Anonymous said…
a biting poem for the barking lot in politics.
May 8, 2008 at 9:49 PM
Unknown said…
the poem is excellent sir.
May 9, 2008 at 11:59 AM
Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

What's the Matter With Cultural Studies?

A timely article, a semi-obituary. . . But I still have hope that the history of cultural studies might matter to the university—and to the world beyond it. My hopes aren't quite as ambitious as they were 20 years ago. I no longer expect cultural studies to transform the disciplines. But I do think cultural studies can do a better job of complicating the political-economy model in media theory, a better job of complicating our accounts of neoliberalism, and a better job of convincing people inside and outside the university that cultural studies' understanding of hegemony is a form of understanding with great explanatory power—that is to say, a form of understanding that actually works. Link: http://chronicle.com/article/Whats-the-Matter-With/48334/
Read more

Remembering Maninder Singh Kang

Image
(18.5.1963-4.2.2013) By Rajesh Sharma I visualize him watching his own burning corpse and laughing a philosopher’s laughter. “Oye pandatā , this Kang was a dog’s tail of a man. Look, he is poking even the flames to laugh. What a struggle the wind and the fire are waging over his body. And look at the rain, it refuses to stop. His death seems to have released an excess of the five bhoots , making nature go berserk.”                 Listening to him, I try to make sense of his bizarre inner geography.                 “He’ll be impossible to replace. It’s such a loss,” he adds in an altogether different mood.       Maninder had this ability to move effortlessly between gaiety and gravity. He probably had found the thread that connects the extremes.                 I met him some twenty years ago when he arrived to teach in the college where I was already teaching. That college, in Hoshiarpur, had then a Principal who liked to take himself very seriously. And he
Read more

You don't know (A poem by Pash)

  Translated from Punjabi by Rajesh Sharma you don ’ t know how I ’ m counted in poetry: like some carcass-eating dog that has strayed into a full-blown mujra   perhaps you wonder what I write late into the nights in the light of a lamp for some party engaged in dangerous things   you don ’ t know how I go to poetry: like a rustic woman in new clothes of outworn fashion who steps, bewildered, into city shops   I ask of poetry nail polish for you coloured embroidery thread for my younger sister bitter medicine to treat father ’ s cataract   poetry sees mischief in such demands   every month night after night it sends for me its sentinels carrying batons of cane and guns with polished butts they take away my beloved books my childhood picture from the shelf and my first love ’ s cry that slipped on the stairs and, hurt, was broken into a disconsolate rainbow   you don ’ t know that the policemen who know me
Read more