The lawn mowing after the death of God

A day so happened that I pronounced: 'God is Dead',
or was maybe never born
(and therefore, we can't say with any surity--
dead as a dodo,
for a dodo as we all know,
surely was.)

And, yeah, so a day like this happened, OK.

The trite blasphemy of the act received raised eyebrows,
there were scuffles in some throats,
followed by the swallowing of sludge.
Some occiputs received massages from palms,
and a few foreheads received finger presses.
Theistic personages rallied for an ambuscade.

And then I received a mellow response:

Does not the long grass
with its slithering along wind wafts
speak of him
Does not the moist soil
that nourishes this grass in its bosom
tell of him

And did I tell you I am sick of this him

So I picked my lawn mower
and ravaged my grass,
after discovering long, beautiful, mute tresses,
which I turned them into muter whiskers.
They can't speak anything, these bristles,
but I just wanted to make sure.

Krishna to Arjuna: Part 3, (The answer to 'What is' Part 1)

Read the previous parts here

So, to a matterless sky the mountain points
The mountain 'is', the sky 'is'--
Or are they?

What 'is', O dear Prince, What 'is'?
Do you, the personification of archery, exist?
Do people exist? Does archery exist?

Or is everything celestial?
Is everything a variation of star matter?
Do stars exist?

Where does this sky,
that like a corrupted taxman hoards these twinkles,
end? Or where does it start?

And if the sky does end and the sky does start
if the universe: the sky, the sun, the moon, the earth, has an end,
what prithee, is after?

Nothing ends my prince,because nothing starts
every zero is infinite and every nothing everything
and this fact, O Dear Arjun 'is'.

God is dead

We are the soldiers of confession;
we make people confess.
We help the saying of what needs to be said,
to relieve the country from anxiety and duress.

We are the soldiers of confession,
the pricks that pus out an abscess;
We are the feets of the bible,
mankind's servants, its own seamstress.

We are the soldiers of confession,
the culmination of sin's process;
We listen and by listening
apprise of the almighty's largesse.

Who, just who, in these times that we live in,
regards with any veneration such dubious rhyme,
that as a goblin hounds the thoughts of freedom.
Is there a priest, a clerk, a lawyer, nay, a common man
who seeks his beginnings in that hallucinatory, weeklong creation?

The farce of God is over, and with it that of rewards,
and punishments, and judgments, and morals, should dissolve.
For what was as obvious as addition can now be stated with impunity--
God is dead. As dead as only a God can be!

Hindi- a poem

I read an article today,
a weird one,
and I read only half of it.
It's about a lady dying from cancer,
and learning Hindi,
just to throw her last moments in a cultivated passion.
True, deviations of hardwork are potent, but
does such a thing reduce fear,
does it soothen the pain,
does it make termination look like an event?
What use is Hindi after death?
And what use is death after Hindi?
Who can tell?
But I read on...

In the third paragraph,
she talks funnily,
in a way that makes me smile.
It's about how 'Dhoop Khana',
or eating the sun,
in Hindi means sun-bathing.
'Oh, the metaphor of a new language,'
she says.
And then she notes the beauty of the script,
and the richness,
and cheekily talkes of the stupidity of pronunciation.
And suddenly I have new questions- Is Hindi of any use in life?
Is life different with Hindi? Is it more poetic?
Who can tell?

Krishna to Arjuna-2

Read part 1 here

Look high to the sky:
a sheet running parallel to earth,
avaricious for a fleeting union.

Or look to the mountain,
a lump of Earth outstretched to kiss the sky,
weathering centuries for a single touch.

Do poetic meanings appear fickle,
or do they convey a whiff
of what the almighty has with all shared.

The word 'karma' tolls in your head,
but, like all simple things of your essence,
avoids the majority of your intelligence.

What is the 'karma' of the sky?
Is it the infinitous vacuum that forever makes it lonely?
Or is it the ubiquity of 'to be'?

What is the 'karma' of the mountain?
To stand up and points towards om?
Or to be the cause of rivers and rain?

And you, you who stand in this battlefield
to purge the putrid taste of the fruits of heraldry,
what is your 'karma'?

Hush, hush, and list; list the question carefully,
for this question carries in its belly
a troika of queries of vital import.

The first bellows "What is?'"
The second hisses "What is yours?"
And the third shrugs "What is 'karma'?"