writebuzz®
About Us   Publish and be read! Poetry, lyrics, short stories, scripts, words of wisdom, features, memorials, blogs (a day in my life), memoirs, history, business, and I.T.
Home   Adults   Youngsters   The Plot Thickens   Publications  

Options
More by this Author
 
© writebuzz® 2004-2017
All rights reserved.

The copyright of each of the publications on this site is retained by the author of the publication. writebuzz.com has been granted permission to display the publications under the terms and conditions of membership to the original site. Publications should not be copied in either print or electronic form without prior permission. Where permission is obtained the authors must be acknowledged. Thank you.
 
  You are @ HomeAdults Poetry

Poetry

Source: Adults

Author: Asher Khan

Title: Bangalore traffic jam.

Shadows play on scorched asphalt.
No peeling rubber,
just madness and sputtering engines,
and the flash of Lord Ganesh
bobbing from rearview mirrors,
in the seething current of 21st century India,
one more swirling pinpoint
in a stationary river of stagnated transportation.
Part crushed rock, part yellow brick road,
bearing the eager hopes
of a billion people,
rolled out on slow wheels
dotted with curbside Hindu temples,
where people believe in a four-armed god
with the head of an elephant,
good fortune to new ventures,
and the prosperity brought by machines.

No skill required here,
only luck, and the priests ritual blessing.
Lighting coconuts, circling vehicles,
in the encroaching hazy dusk,
chanting, flowers, sacred flames,
and the ritualized smashing of burning husks.
Crushed lemons under wheels,
no drivers licence required,
a discarded bag of turmeric powder,
kerbside chai boys, green-banana sellers.
No screen-wash hustlers.

All seen through the cracked and grimy
windshield,
bounced about through potholes
on patched up tyres.
High-beam creatures
that jump from Bangalores' shadows
and vanish when you look.
The flank of a bony cow.
A mound of carted hay.
The crow-pecked corpse of a dog.
A scarf-bedecked ghost on a weaving motor-cycle.
Hindu teenagers chewing
high-octane masala tobacco,
scratching old bedbug bites,
to the screechy soundtrack
of Bollywood love songs,
on tinny speakers,
screaming over engines,
waking the dead,
same as it ever was and ever will be.




Published on writebuzz®: Adults > Poetry
 

writebuzz®... the word is out!