Poems and Poetry

hopelessness poems

The Voter | A Social Justice Poem by Daipayan Nair

Moments, when the cradle receives jolts and shocks
In it, the little life rocks
Figuring later, happy earthquakes are politics
Which does to a child the very thing the child wants
Sweet lullabies, those imaginative rides,
Those playful hidings, mischievous goodbyes are all politics
Feeding the new child with bribes for gaining
The most sadistic pedestal – position
The parent who lets his child grow on his own
Is a risk taking politician
The child will either be a vote bank or a voter

House in my absence built over those dead, from those dead
Still living a life of royal distempers is an excellent vote bank
Becoming surely silent with my unsure silence
Vote bank which sacrifices its all to follow the unknown
Vote banks are either with a candy packet or none at all
Excellent digesters of child toffee politics and child toy politics

“He who has served himself has only served his master”

Vote banks as slaves to none,
Except being ultimate slaves to the one
The one, if turns a dictator,
Is loved like a bastard’s legitimate son
They now know, daddy has learnt to divide Daddy has learnt to rob,
Manipulate a mob, be a cunning heartthrob
Swag dressed in gifted hollow packs
Just to increase our candy sacks

“Oh dear daddy, you’re a true saint
You’re sacrificing a lot, a lot of red flesh
For the much promised love
How much pressurized demands of gold From my golden brothers
Have you happily fulfilled”

Vote banks blackout all reasons when it’s their ideal father
Vote banks dig out fresh reasons when it comes
To killing the fellow brothers
Vote banks like to have things their own way
So they honour kill, honour burn, cash kill, cash burn
Crimes with inbuilt lawyers
Poor vote banks of little children finding
Contrasts in the black, calling for big daddy to settle
He sees who’s before the cattle, who’s after the cattle
That certain dresses hide weapons for battle
Daddy would create, daddy would destroy
It would be daddy, setting his own inspections, his own investigations,
His own rules to recreate and ploy
The elite vote banks superficially kill, beneficially burn
Candy packets were too much or too less
Apetite was over fed or famine dead

A young girl with baked skin is public circus,
Running trains being made a dead snake of limited public effection.
One rises only when it’s about daddy
Once God had worshippers, then thinkers developed fans
Once celebrity moms had fans, now government dads find devotees
Murders declared ‘good’ by the majority,
Murderers declared God by them
Whose wishes were fulfilled, were greedy to multiply
Who didn’t wish, grew in themselves
Blasted like bombers

Vote banks increased, voters didn’t
Voters never really got a chance after the cradle earthquake
I’ve always questioned, why I’m here
I’ve been answered, ‘for nothing’
Somewhere, I refused being political and diplomatic
I refused being a fool creating fools
Fools making one colored tools

I knew from then on, I was the equator in an earth of partitions,
I would always be the voter, voting for his own existence
In real, voting his own existence out
I knew I was in a group of thousands if not lakhs

I also knew, growth of a tenure isn’t manipulated by time,
It’s as old as its patience
I’m an eater of time, I vote so that they allow me to eat
It makes me a ‘voter’ in today’s world
With a ‘satisfied’ choice.

Visit Daipayan at https://daipayannair.wordpress.com.


What Her Life Is Like | A Poem by Guy Farmer

A door opens on a
Narrow lane in a small
Hillside town forgotten
By time. She steps out
Into the familiar mix
Of shadow and light
Playing off stone.
A neighbor walks by,
The perfunctory hello.
Once in a while she sees
A tourist or two, adventurous
Sorts who journey to isolated
Places for an authentic experience.
She wishes she could tell
Them what her life is like,
Ask them to take her with them.


Tired Feet in Heavy Boots | A Poem by Roy Pullam

A worker
His sturdy blue uniform dirty
Grease under his fingers
Callouses on his hand
His hard work and bad back
A given trade
For his Friday pay
Two children and a wife
Waiting at home
Bills to be paid
Children expecting
The things
Other fathers provide
His is a challenge
A triage
Of bills and opportunity
A choice of who to deny
Who will wait
And who demands
A payment
The grind never changes
The kitchen table
Feeding his anxiety
Window letters
In a pile
Second notice
Final notice
All shuffled
Into sleepless nights
The morning clock
Pounds him awake
Too little sleep
The temptation
To bury his head
But he will not shirk
Rising from the bed
Bathing, eating
Putting his feet
In the heavy boots
The laces
Tying him
To forty years
Forty years
Then done
Gone too fast
With little left

Scavengers | A Poem by Aritrik Dutta Chowdhury

Ripples in the gutters,
The tired raindrops kissing
The unpurged dross
Lying unaddressed
In the alleys of my neighbourhood.
Hoarded days,
Like municipal waste
Has managed to camouflage
Those morsels
Of my castaway memories —
That I had chucked out
Of my window fringes.

The wheel-barrow is full
With the snacks I offered
Obnoxiating the fiesta
Of the efficient scavengers
Who now seem pained
With the antidotes of my melancholy.

Worms penetrate me
From the gutters.