Thoughts like soldiers marching
Over my neurons
Thoughts of fear, worry and what not else
Dancing inside my head
Telling me to die off
I try to laugh away and smile on
To live, if not for me
For those bugging thoughts
Need a head to be alive
If I just give up,
They'd be wandering
Down the streets
To find a new abode.
Frail and tender, little fingers
Up and down the 5 dollar flute
A music for the centuries
A melancholic odd note
Piercing hearts of flesh
Still there are some
Iron ones, I think
Which bother not the music
Nor the little musician
He, the saviour with a flute
Wander the streets alone
His breath earning daily bread
Has God lost power
And mankind, humanity?
Remember a war with gunshots
And blood trails
His head hurts even now to think
A pause between the notes
Little bright eyes trying to hide
The pathos of the past in a wink
Picking up pieces of hope
And shattered dreams in thoughts
Tears fail to drop down
Eyes refuse to cry anymore
Lips burying those memories with smile
His little flute plays notes
Of hope and dreams yet to come
Somewhere in a night
Of sleep without nightmares
Passersby threw coins of pity
Hunger could not find a prey in him
Oh, he played hide and seek too
With the policemen in vigil
Warmongers and fighters
Seem to go scot-free
While the kids wait under bunkers
For the blue sky to join the play.
Tears too heavy for earth to bear
Sending out warnings for
Those it cares
To those who get warned with will
To those who mend their ways
Send earth the virus of peace
Which can make every human
Despise the arms
Oh, dear curse the greed and war
Between men of course for power
Streets now bare and empty
Like the ants in hiding
Men behind locks
The world battles
An unseen villain
Choking breaths
Will humanity ever be revived
With meds or otherwise
Even the villain seems to have heart
To consider for the little souls everywhere.
An unseen enemy however frail and small
Is sure to wreck havoc of fear
Asked for peace, not death
Still I can't bargain
Until every heart of mankind
Be willing for sacrifice
In exchange for a world
Of no war and no hate
Where man is man; nothing else
Not a greedy lump of flesh
Until then
Make every kid invisible
Oh mother earth
Hide them in your bosom,
Safe from the microbes and
Men of Deceit
As the air clear out
And earth breathes again fresh
The old ways of nature
Returns to their places
Rivers ,seas and winds join
Creating heaven on earth
Till then, my little flutist
Stay strong and cheerful
When winds visit to make
New notes and a new music
For the souls which last forever and ever.
It was the language of Love that joined us together from two different countries. Life and works
separated us now. First time ever, I got a letter from her. The letters trembled and fell from the patchy paper in my hand as I tried to decipher what seemed Latin. Once all of them had fallen, the blank paper revealed her lifeless eyes bleeding in pain in a foreign land. Then, I knew I need to buy wings.
It is often said that art prevails even if the artists who made them pass away. Such was the influence of artworks in the past, be it music, painting or dance forms. The cultural conditions helped them to transgress the generations and make an impact on the thought process of the minds.
Liberals and progressive ideologists have utilised the services of artworks to express, convince and influence the masses to progressive thinking patterns. But is the influence dying down?
A doubt arose in my mind after failing to find participants for a program when it was announced that there would be no prizes and the works are just for expressing themselves. “What will I gain?” the questions from little kids pierced my mind to bring back the memories of my childhood when our anguish, despair, love, hope, nearly all the emotions of the adolescent stage found one way or the other to vent out of our souls in what we considered as artworks, if not for the world.
There had been very few children who didn’t like to draw a line or two to make a pathetic selfie. Even few among them didn’t dare to write up their own creations be it on the answer sheets or otherwise. There is a major difference between the two generations. Those of the immediate past didn’t bother about the prizes or gains whereas the present generation asks “What will I gain?”
We ask the same question for nearly all decisions in life. When we take up a course, a career, get married, have children, and even when we take care of our elderly parents by keeping them with us in the same home. Life as a whole has become a balance sheet of gains, losses, risks and benefits. How can art escape from this harsh reality?
I do agree that art needs patronage to survive. But is it absolutely essential? For me art is a form of expression of vented up emotions be it joy or sadness. There is a touch of reality in every fiction, a bit of author in every work, a piece of the artist in every painting. That’s unique to an individual just like the genetic fingerprint and that’s what made those artworks seemingly closer to hearts.
Where have we failed as a society to preserve the art? We do take pride in our past cultural relics especially those which portray art. But we fail to see the present where artists struggle to even earn their livelihood, leave alone the fame. This struggle for existence, just like in biological evolutionary theory put forward by Darwin had created another competition for centre stage as a means to survival.
There is another principle which follows the struggle for existence once it intensifies; the competitive exclusion. Simply put, it leaves the competition and finds another job. Hence when some manage to occupy the centre stage of art, others tend to take up different professions as a means to survive leaving out the competition.
Here’s where we lose out the real talents. That would have otherwise been the carriers of artwork to transcend generations ahead. For that, there are only two ways. First finest forms of art need to find real patrons to grow. And, we need to replace the question “What will I gain?” with dedication and commitment. Both are however difficult and need the changed outlook of the society towards art.
Hope we don’t let the art die….
A happy prince
Turned to Statue
With a lone companion
A sparrow with stories
Both ended up in dust to
Transformation
A pound of gold
A fistful heart
It stopped beating
After singing the brightest song
To make another happy note
It still awaits
A chance to heal
The broken pots with scars so deep
Filling the cracks and crevices
Turning into a new life with shine
What's love, if it claims pure but
Fails to mend a single broken heart even
It was dilapidated yet elegant, unnoticed by busy city dwellers except for my occasional glances. Loud parties used to gain neighbour’s ire in the past. The house’s solitude disturbed mine and grew monstrously.
I couldn’t compartmentalize my egoistic self and called the local police station to suggest my paranoiac fears about the solitary house. Soon it became a news piece, an evening gossip and talk of the town and people came just to have a look at the house. And there rested my alter ego, sipping the green tea on a reclining chair enjoying the noisy chats of the neighbours.
Pregnant Mary and her husband wanted to escape the wretched war torn country which was led by a man of actions, but mostly brutal ones. The city was swarmed with vagabonds like them even though it was Christmas season. A plight from poverty to utopia. Her hopes slowly dwindled with time as the borders got shut. She hoped to get a boy who like her husband would risk his life to protect her dignity. She remembered her little sister who got raped and killed and frantically searched the night sky for another Star of David with tearful eyes.
