Poems on "Culture"

My Chief, My Chief

a poem by

Jason Ralte

“My chief, my chief”, cried the village herald.
Upon the open latch of the door entered he,
Pale, sweaty and out of breath.
Forgive us if we have not been kind enough to offer our help
But lately, we feel that you have forgotten us.
We offer our condolences for the unfortunate events,
Was it your wife or sister or bride, or son?
I am not sure to which to offer our earnest respect.
He gazed upon Him and they stood still.
Finally in an attempt to console the chieftain, he spoke.
My liege, was it wrong of us to trust in others,
Or wrong in trusting too much of ourselves?
Beckon your wise counsel upon my ears so to disclose facts to the village
As to why you and your household have kept quiet for so long.
We need the reassurance of our great leader to change the situation.
My lord answer me, please. I beg of you.
As he was about to make for the door, he turned again and gave a sigh-
Looking from the old, pencil-drawn portrait of the chieftain to his grave
That accompanied the mound in the backyard.
Goodbye, my chief, if only we had one last time.

(Inspired by a visit to a nearby village outlined the theme of the poem,
where the house of chieftain and family feel they are left behind and
forgotten in a modern and fast-paced world.)

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When a rape happens

a poem by

Ramanujam Meganathan

When a rape happens or
When a rape is performed
Every one wakes up, gets outraged, infuriated
Finds moving phrases that affront the rapist
Leading to agitations at the India Gate and Jantar Mantar.
Everyone has a say,
Exasperations, vexations of all sorts.
President expresses his shock and displeasure.
Some popular neta says, “Boys are boys.”
Some sacrosanct puritan calls for stringent laws for women.
Dress code for women.
It is their dress which exposed their flesh
Causing the rape.
It is the raped who should take the blame.
The rapist will script stringent and austere regulations.
Hues and Cries and Cries and Hues.
We have to do something.
Meanwhile another rape.
Rape and murder follow strictly.
Blame the Chief Minister, Prime Minister
As another minister from another state rapes a teenager.
Whole country debates and discourses about law.
Commission is appointed, nationwide debates.
There seems to be change is coming.
Anti-rape law enacted.
Rapist multiplied.
It is now reported, women are courageous now.
The fucking law is working.
Law is curing the disease, not preventing it.
Why this fucking rascals indulge in rape
In this great country of traditions and God fearing rich cultured people.

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Female Feticide

a poem by

Smridhi

I could have been your pride,
But I died before my birth,
It must have not been easy for you to kill me,
But the fact is that now I am a carcass,
Didn’t you ever dream for my future,
Wasn’t that painful for you to chuck me out of your body as if I was a rotten part of you,
Why did you scrub me down?
Didn’t you ever have compassion for me,
They say I am god’s most beautiful creation
Then why like a buzzard you finished me,
Merely because I would have not been your male child,
But I was your child- a part of you,
Didn’t you even give a single thought before doing this inhumane act to me?
Are you not scared of law or your god?
Do you actually expect the world to move on without eves?
Are you actually unaware of the fact that daughters are assets?
Make this world a better place and give your daughters equal chance to prove their worth.

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Twilight Zone

a poem by

Remigius de Souza

A window of a cell, an eye on the world
moves on and on, on the wings of clouds,
a journey on the border of day and night
in the community of the Earth and stars.

Here one can’t even touch nor is there
a room for trivialities of theories
of trade, politics and philosophies,
and of the earthlings who don’t belong
to the Earth and the Sun, living on
self-deception and squabbles blown
out of proportion, work, work, work,
work to leave glorious ruins behind.

The gods, god persons live on preaching
a hope of salvation, raise monuments
by blood-shed by the earthlings bonded
perpetually to the chains of chaos.

Blessed are the earthworms far away
from the public eye; they don’t make
scriptures or monuments out of their
shit to the legacy or lead Life astray.

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Why are you stealing our culture

a poem by

Elaine E. Howie

Don’t you think I know what you are doing?
Everything I say you put into your news
But your little sayings you copy write
I see my grand children and I am worried
Because they don’t see what is happening
But I am looking watching and again
I ask why are you stealing our culture
Our dances you take from us
Our music is unsafe
Our very slang you somehow want to rearrange
Why are you stealing our culture?

You sit back and you chastise the makers
But you use it you plagiarize it
But nothing is said
Our food you have found the seasoning is good
And you put up restaurants and fast-food places
You cook it you eat it and you laugh at it
But your kids they love it so you must ignore it

So why again are you stealing our culture?
The hairstyles you have chosen that four score and seven
Years ago were not good enough for you but now
Oh a new day in a new way you make money off of our Culture
Why are you stealing our culture?

Do you think we don’t see as blind as you please mhhhnnn
I don’t see a black girl from the ghetto struggling
To make it to no ballet school with her own moves
Just white and Latino are some other race

Why are there not more black T.V. stations?
Why are they not allowed to pick their own shows?
I see Chinese with more stations then blacks
I see Latino with more stations every time I turn on the TV
Why are you stealing our culture?

I shake my head at the past things you’ve said
And quietly I say to myself now it is permissible?
The weave in your hair
The words that you swear
Are yours all made up?
Well I am here to tell you

You are stealing our culture but
We aren’t alarmed because you sure
Can’t steal our souls
Oh maybe I should not tell you this but our souls are made of gold
Ha ha ha yes I can see you take a double look how can I steal that too
You say but god gave it to us and you can’t take that away

And we have plenty more where that comes from
So as you steal and wheel and deal
Just know this old grandmother is watching you
And educating my grand kids in all that you do
Stop thinking us dumb for I was once a mom
And I don’t like you stealing our culture

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Kathakali Actor

a poem by

Rema Prasanna

Painted those faces
vibrant their attire
bright their crowns
a king, a queen and a
quintessential cruel.
A story opens up
legends mystified
expression epitomized
poetic melodies
resounding drums.
Without a word
with style and pause,
on stage to enact
vision and wisdom,
love and passion,
war and bloodshed.
Epics cruises through
their eloquent intelligence
and at the end
with their empty hands
subtract the paints and
those crowns of a bright
make believe world.

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Language

a poem by

Sony Dalia

Physique
Tantalizing, terrific-
Transforms beyond compare.

Land
Languid, lengthening-
Luminous demarcations devastate.

Meandering meadows,
Stretching lakes-
Splendid nectar springs.

Perennial rivers,
Evergreen fields-
Lend meaning to life.

Tongue and tone,
Men and manners-
Baffling birthplace bedazzles!

Soil flexes silently,
Melody moistens spirit-
Land and letter inseparable!

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Shilpa Shetty’s insult on British Televsion

a poem by

Hiren Shah

Indian actress Shilpa Shetty suffered racial abuse on the UK TV Show “Big Brother”.
This is a poetic response to the racist remark from Jade Goody.
“She wishes she was White. She is a dog”.
Since it was an uncultured remark, I have taken it under culture.

The issue is not that she was black or white
In the 21st century, all that is trite
The reality is that she is beautiful and bright
Calling her a dog, in indecency this is the height
One should be careful because dogs can bite
Pick one of your kind if you want to fight
In thought, speech and action, we believe in being light
We have a spiritual legacy to follow day and night
Accordingly we shall forgive and forget this slight
Hope all this has given you a valuable insight
Pen being more powerful than the sword, we also have poetic might
We may have learnt English from you but can now beat you left and Right
This will do for the time being. Till next time, sit tight

For someone whose name is Jade Goody
You seem to be quite temperamental and moody
My dear Jade, your hostility needs to fade
In God’s eyes everybody is equal, that’s the world he has made
Words can hurt more than sword and spade
Rather than use a tongue like a blade
Be ever peaceful and comforting as a shade?

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April Flower

a poem by

Gopikrishnan Pisharody

Yellow flowers are flowered
Here and there,
The symbol of Love and Wealth
‘Vishu’ the new month of Kerala

Father and Mother gave me ‘Kaineetam’,
Where the elder gives to his brothers,
As says “I will be with you at any circumstance”

Farmers pray for their crop to be good
Where in all villages are happy,
I pray to that God
To gave us happy and prosperous,
Through the year where we are.

But one part is too dark;
There is no food and cloths,
We can gave a hand to them
To come up with us.
Inviting them as a New Flower to our world,

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Vernaculars

a poem by

Wali S T Dr.

Mostly inaccurate and inexact,
Seldom ahead behind all the times,
Like the rusty pendulum clock:
Atop an old clock tower
Fixed in the heart of a sleepy town.

We worship power,
Oft we spread discontent.
We honor political thugs,
Clowns, and all kinds of touts.
We create news; else we invent.
Ever ready to distort facts
Proud to print government hand-outs

Editorialise and sensationalise
Insert views in news
Defile virtue, we glorify crimes
It is always wise
To co-operate with the powers-that-be,
Readily, just faithfully.

It’s our job to manufacture consent
Yes, we’re the conscience-keepers
Self-appointed guardians
Of Indian democracy
And Establishment.

We’re, dear citizens,
Vernaculars:
The Indian newspapers!

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Ways to Wealth

a poem by

Remigius de Souza

1)
Once a god adored adorned
many a head of door to an abode.
Now the gods take to the road,
beg for patronage. And the rich
beggars go globe trotting for
finance, know-how and trade.

2)
Once the children of communities
cohesive received learning free
in the life-supporting skills in
branches of wholesome life-tree.

Now in the forward societies
they buy it at the trading malls
turning their clocks fast forward
until late to their adulthood
to earn their dough of uncertain
value to buy the living and life-
supporting services from expertise
at the thriving market place.

3)
Now the bureaucrats, the masters
from the branches of expertise,
at their highest level of incompetence
in Peter Principle take chairs;
replace colours faded of feudal-ship,
at the helm of the people’s affairs.

Now no wonder the prostitution goes
rampant and the pimps thrive on
as they make it quick with smile on
the by-ways and highways to wealth.

4)
Now no wonder all the world children
‘you and I, yours and mine’
are the cursed ‘unwanted generation’,
as much said, the ‘growing population’
by the stakeholder ‘the rational animal’ man
as much done: the rape of Mother Earth.

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The Art of Culture – I

a poem by

Ramesh T A

The misty clouds clearing the way for the morning Sunrise,
The day raises up the people from the night sleep
With divine songs and the chiming of the bells from the temples.
Yes! Culture is not tradition obsolete and stagnant
But is creative beauty, unifying and lovely to follow
For human life to sustain knowledgeably and lovingly
Enhancing human value elevated towards divinity.

Temples created long ago stand beautifully longer
And lovely statues ever remain lively there;
This beauty is truth, perfect and permanent.
These symbolic arts show the eternal in the ephemeral;
Forever in harmony animal, human and divine live here
Reflecting the all embracing nature naturally in this art of man.

The Sunlight of wisdom clears the misty clouds of confusions
And wakes up the people from the slumber to the shrewdness
To do subtle works with noble mind and humorous heart
Like the inspiring divine songs and the clear chiming temple bells.

Intelligence may be the mark of man’s civilisation,
But wisdom lies ever only in the human culture;
And the art of culture manifests in the memorable creations of man
Making the world a beautiful place to live in love and truth.

Temple, the treasure of life tells the truth to each generation
Of life to be lived in the best and beautiful way here
To enjoy and fulfill life’s destiny with satisfaction
As the harmony of music mirthfully in the world of Maya.

Never a loathsome thing if life lived as we liked;
But ever an irksome matter if you live an inhuman life.
Man should never be an animal if not a divine;
Neither animal nor divine, how best can we live
Singly or in family in the life of the world we love?

Bachelor life, a romantic one, cannot prolong to the end;
Romantic life, a lovely one, but is not morally the best;
Morally, intellectually, spiritually, romantically family life’s the best.

Nature, literature, music, dance and movie comprise culture;
The art of culture unites heart, mind and soul to make life complete;
But the way of life is left to the taste of the individual’s choice.

Choose the life of love, life of knowledge or life of work in the world;
But thoughtful work with synthesis of love and knowledge is king’s culture!
So, briefly these are the man’s ways of life man has to live in the world.

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The Art of Culture – II

a poem by

Ramesh T A

Peace of mind gives freedom to man;
Peaceful life gives bliss to man in the world,
A rare feat that can change hell into heaven here itself!

How can such a peace be achieved on the Earth?
Such a peace comes when one’s own time stops!
Can we stop time the eternal worker of the Universe?
No one can change Fate of man in the world;
But anyone can change according to Fate.

Nude we came and nude we go at the end,
Not the nude of the body, but the mind, the spirit!
That is the way to achieve peace, freedom, liberation!

How to achieve such a goal, man?
Knowledge, good and great, one should learn;
Wealth, fair and just, one should earn;
Pleasure, heart, mind and soul, one should enjoy;
And liberation, heart, mind and soul, one can achieve!

Why is mankind mirthless and melancholic today?
The rule of classicism came to an end all round the world;
And cultural life also came to an end along with it;
But the relics of classicism still remain everywhere.

Then sentimental romanticism replaced classicism nook and corner;
Intensive emotional expressions found its way in the people’s culture,
That is, as in art, literature, music, dance and drama in life also!
Culture has become the property of a few called aristocrats;
Modern culture has become the way of life through technocrats.

The art of culture today follows the method of intellectual romanticism;
Emotionally intellectual modern romanticism is informally individual and dynamic
Unlike the formally extensive social and static expressions of the old intellectual classic.
So, modern culture both romantic and technocratic is full of variety
Though not wise yet scientifically intelligent in art and life now.

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Beware! The Strings are at work

a poem by

Remigius de Souza

Buddha may have a kick in his brain
By penance of self-imposed starvation
And preach a secret of salvation
For the past twenty-five hundred years on.
By then come Newton, Marx, Einstein,
Then there may be others yet to follow on.

The Seconds, Thirds, Fourths, and so on,
In their ranks and files in-the-line
Convert the theories into technologies;
Religious; political; trade; economic; war;
For the salvation of the ruling classes
In the name of liberated (sic) civilisation.

The Masters of the Universe, meanwhile,
Men in Black, Batman, Spiderman, Superman
Entertain the thoroughly bored masses
In the humdrum daily of their living
While they curse the gift of Life often
Rather than take charge of their living.

And the masses get kick in their belly.
Even the insects in their short life-span
Are better of than the humans, to live in
Abundance in quality that’s far superior.
Nature, after all, doesn’t follow the theories
Of men howsoever they may be enlightened.

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Cover my Probing Eyes

a poem by

Rajendran M

I want to be like the epic Kanthari
with my eyes covered.
For there are priests, monks and mullahs
who recite prayers to God in tongues
living on the lips of research scholars.
Isn’t the Almighty a polyglot?
When men learn and speak a host of languages,
will the Lord struggle to understand?
If some bigwigs come to worship
with currencies local or hard,
the priests sing prayers in dialects
which have no written script.
Hymns and slogans in opaque codes and words
have propped up militancy
silent and open to mar the peace.

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