A poet’s son-
Who entered the ring of filmdom
Like Mike Tyson
Delivering dialogues like hot balls of fire from gun
He mingled fantasy with fun
His roles as orphan foresaken child heightened his rhetoric to the point of misanthropy
His dialogue often sounds like heretics’ comments on life
But never he smacks of cynicism
Upright, tall, invincible-
He stalks on Hindi Cinema Screen
Like a conqueror
After vanquishing an unknown island
Kids are fond of him
Because he is fantastic story teller
But I behold his life as poetry
Because he is the greatest poem
Written by Harivanshray Bachhan
I know I am dreaming
With my eyes and mind wide open
I see the world
The way I want it…
I draw the pleasure
From the world I see
You can’t touch it
You can’t see it
For it is the way I live
Break me or shake me
But you won’t believe in me
That’s the way you live…
Let the shackles break
Join my world
So that you can find
That you were dreaming
And all this time
It was me who was living…
It was me who was living…
Unable to possess
Beautiful Indian woman
The jilted lover, foreign
Make a film.
Make her dance
As if she was born
To clean dirty souls
The very clean looking’s;
Incorrigible, self important,
walk talk, boastful.
airports, go downs
pretending to amuse.
Never mind, she thought
At least the hurt guy
Could busy nurse
His tears dry;
At her cost
His bread earn;
Through her doors
Try for heaven
She had no regrets.
This was her donation
This is all about
the betrayed German Devdas
who did not hit the bottle to forget
his lover but the jackpot
and mint money. Not bad.
Everything is fare in love and war!
Calcutta resident, of Bishop Lefroy road,
Gifted film maker Satyajit Ray; was old
Ill in bed when he won
His, “Apur Sansar,” a brain cracker
Can’t resist to name another
Of his fairy tale, satire
“Guppy Gain Bagha Bayonne,”
A film discreet refine,
Hollywood friend Audrey Hepburn
Of, “My Fair Lady,” fame
Accepted the price on behalf of him.
A debt the film world did pay back only just before he died.
It was a narrow escape for indebted
Sir, Prize Oscar.
Cell phone junkies, cigarette rapists
capitalize small town America
We’ve no room for your black and white T.V.
Bunny ear antennas
Telephones and flashlights
A woman cries in the background
A small child digs for food in a local garbage
We can’t hear your lonesome beepers
We can’t see your industrial growth
Broken satellite dish in the sky
The wind sings a quiet song, a quiet whisper as it
rustles through leaves in a nearby park
The protege waits for his lessons
an executive attends a meeting
Guy with cool van, warm smile listens to his AM/FM radio
I’m in love with a Chinese Milkmaid
Listening in on Suburban neighbours we analyze the discussion
It seems the local team lost the game on friday night
“That Anderson boy has a good arm”
says the man trimming his hedges
“Might even make the state championship”
And as the last hedge is trimmed the man checking
his mail says “Yeah”
SATURDAY MORNING DISASTER
And as he puts away his shears he brings the grill from the garage
“Real good running offense” he says
The neighbour flipping through his mail says nothing
at all as his wife loads two large suitcases into a
red top convertible
As the man stands over the steaming grill he watches his neighbour
slowly walk back into the house
The red top convertible pulls off and down the street past mailboxes
His wife brings out the barbecue sauce.
“what just happened?”
“Susan just left again”
Dust filled attics and children’s rooms in the night
polyester couches feel smooth to the touch
Teenage girl waiting for a phone call
Business suits cover the tracks of a heroin user’s last high
a gray mist fills the room as we drop ice cubes into
our fragile glasses.
‘Give her a mild morsel
Of music’, he said.
Ritu rose, switched on the player.
Soft melodious notes filled
Up the room, the bed.
Still she cried but
The sound was low
Tears slowly trickled
Down through her make-up layer.
Directing through the
Decade, plays, that
And created his name,
He hardly had
Ever stopped the rehearsal.
For him it was a matter of shame.
‘Most difficult role;
Why did she opt to act,
If she was so fragile, in fact.’
She had a cone of vanilla,
her flame red tongue darting out
every time she savoured it,
And he had a scoop of strawberry
which he devoured leisurely
in between her whispers and giggles.
The man at the counter bided his time.
puffing on a cigar and stroking his beard.
The channel poured forth
a soothing sonata.
I went on sipping my lemonade.
A sense of ‘dejavu’ getting into me.
The cat saunters in as if from nowhere
I see it getting under their table
The girl lets out a shriek and jumps up
the boy gets up with a start
the man drops his cigar.
I have forgotten my lines.