kulkuthtah

Then I could waft in and out of you.
You stack them all up inside of me
It's useless you say
She ought to be here by three
Pick me a rose from that bush

Pinch the damn fish
Arms bent out of shape
The smell of brand new chuddar
Musty earth beneath your kohlapuris
Arches were good for revolutions you said

Plodding
Were we there as yet?
But I liked meeshti far too much
And I stepped on dung balls
During Sarawasti Puja the year before last

"What is the moral of the story?"
Black widows make for good metaphors
I need to rein you in
Washing you makes my skin peel
But also so terribly lonely to watch you steal

“My horizons are enlarged by reading the writers of poems, seeing a painting, listening to some music, some opera, which has nothing at all to do with volatile human condition or struggle of whatever. It enriches me as a human being. And so the artists should not be tempted to make propaganda of their lives.” --- Wole Soyinka

My friend always refers to the literature we have on Tibet as 'propaganda.' I used to grimace when I heard that word. Somehow, I always thought that propaganda ought to keep its ugly head (or so I thought) hidden in Mao's little book. What had I, an artist, anything to do with propaganda? I ought, like Soyinka says, to 'enrich' myself. I am a tainted artist if my writing leans to the tendencious.

I write solely because I have not the strength to be a writer or an artist without making note of what happened a week ago in the Himalayan mountains. http://www.protv.ro/filme/404.html

Pilgrims fall down on the snow without a sound. The others carry on. The soldier sits down and lights a cigarette. All of it lacks the sheen of reality. But perhaps my reality has been tainted too: by the all pervasive accompanying music, by the pitch black shrieks, by the information I am able to receive at three in the morning.

I refuse to let my reality destroy someone else's. I refuse to let my 'Writing' come in the way of life: my life and my people's.