Nonsense verses poetry

Among writers in English noted for nonsense verse are Edward Lear, Lewis Carroll, Ogden Nash, Mervyn Peake, Colin West, Roald Dahl, Dr. Seuss and Spike Milligan. The Martian Poets and Ivor Cutler are considered by some to be in the nonsense tradition.

Enter me...proud to follow the path drawn out by such great great men. The title as some may have already noticed, tries rather pathetically to make an insipid wordplay pun out of the words 'verses' and 'versus'. That's how lame I can get sometimes.

Let me start with a slightly Dadaist poem which I think is the most unusual (even by my surprisingly high standards of unusualness) of the lot of 4. I wrote it in a deluded state when I was reminded of the 'nutritional information' on the containers of many processed foodstuffs, because that did really inspire the creation of this truly fascinating piece of literature:

Contains added flavours

Man - poisoned with excess zinc thiosulphate,
swollen, fell into a vat of
boiling, syrupy, red tomato ketchup.
The bottle with its natural added flavors
had on its packaging-
zinc - trace amounts.


The next poem 'Toothpick' points out (I'm serious now - no jokes, honest) the rebellious side of human character, non-conformity and shattering of stereotypes.
A polished son of a wealthy socialite swaggers into a formal dinner attired in 'perfectly shocking' denims and holding a toothpick in his teeth - this image from my mind's eye will help put this poem into the right context.

Toothpick

With a toothpick held in my mouth,
I flash a smile with it sticking out.
With a piece of wood lodged between my teeth,
I chew on it like its a piece of meat.
With a slender splinter under my tongue,
I whistle a tune which I had once sung.
With a thin little stick with my lips around,
I shock everybody in the elite snob crowd.


Well the next is poem titled 'Le poem'.I don't know if there are any grammatical errors as far as the usage of French is concerned or whether to expect a death threat from a lingual purist. It is what I call, a unique blend of French, English and temporary insanity.

Le poem

Cher
Boulanger
My order,
tu accorde.
Mais le pain
sits in vain.


Classy, innit ? French - the languge of love, trodden on pretty ruthlessly by the stampede of my creative inflow.

The last one now, 'The thought...' wants to send a message that even though everyone desires success and prominence in the society, very few people are willing to work for it. That is all I wish to say on this subject... :D

The thought at quarter past midnight

On the diwan with pen in hand,
I think of something so amazing to write,
that will propel me into the pages of history
- to attain money, power and fame.
But alas! I need my sleep, I bid my thoughts goodnight.



Now I wish to ask for a favour - would the readers be kind enough so as to rate my poems (so-called, but their still mine). Though I don't personally believe in rating creativity and view it as crude form of judgement, I believe I deserve a little chin-upping (or downing - which depends on your ratings).
Rate them on a scale of ten with each of these as seperate criteria - Humour, level of insanity and publication worthiness.
For instance a rating of 1,9,0 would mean I'm an incredibly unfunny, insane person whose poems would do rather nicely on my asylum's notice board.

Really looking forward (!) to your comments.

And that has made all the difference.

This is an excerpt from a poem (well, the poem) by Robert Frost :


Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth

And there I still remain standing.....

It's not the last line; but this means so much more to me. It defines daily life - the conflict between right and wrong, between morals, ethics and whether to say yes or to say no.

What matters is not just my happiness - its pride, success and more importantly, things which can't be put into words.

For this, a thousand times over

A heady, enchanting mixture of curses, yells and kitesperanto issuing from his lips. It was awe-inspiring to watch.

Bursting with life, tugging at the thin long thread vanishing into the sky, he had the bright autumn sun as his background. The moment was captured in my eyes to remain forever.

I was a spectator that day - I couldn't fly kites even if my life depended on it.

The light green kite - which was ours - looked the prettiest in the azure sky, dancing with each deft pull of my cousin's fingers, but then again beauty is in the eye of the beholder.

The kite is mine, not because it is beautiful - It is beautiful because it is mine. The same could be said for love. Someone loves a girl not because she is beautiful. No, not at all. She is beautiful (for him) because he loves her.

We felt like kings of the world, standing triumphantly (for no good reason) atop the deserted four-storey building. In those marvelous moments, we had not a care in the world - the past did not matter nor did the future, for this was what was to be lived - the glorious present.

Cliched but oh-so-true.

A war of kites was raging high above, too far for me to get involved. But my cousin - his eyes shone with a madness that I could associate with no emotion I had the fortune of experiencing before. It was pure pure ecstasy. And the freshness of youth which seemed to say - 'I can do anything in the world !'.

It was magical.

Maybe this was what independence meant.

The Empty Gun

Well here's the poem I mentioned in my first post (that you'd know if you'd read it - I mean you, Rish). I worked quite a lot on it until I got frustrated and could stand the mention of the word 'improve' (as is dictated in the poet charter). Well I've reproduced it here so I'd be rather obliged if someone ( i.e ; anyone, as I want to get feedback pertaining to such poetry) has anything at all to say that could help me improve on my litterati. Here goes -


Empty Gun


An empty gun,
Like an empty promise
Can do much to decieve.
Never too early to use one,
Never to late to recieve.


The woman who I loved once,
Was at the balcony, creeping
When I saw her go.
Moving silently, cautiously,
Moving oh-so slow


The mellow tone of my voice
took on a threatening pitch
"What do you think you're doing now with those trunks at your side ?
Leaving me, is it ?
Then also leave my money inside."


She seemed rather startled
And she quietly looked below
A case lay beside her, and without a doubt
In her haste and hurried work,
Few money notes were sticking out.


Caught off-guard, she wasn't going down
Drew out a blade at once.
The girl had prepared for it.......
An expert of the martial arts.
A melee - she wasn't scared of it.


I was a cautious person too.
A lone man in a huge mansion needs security.
Took out a pistol from my pocket
Light-It wasn't right...no bullets, an empty gun.
But I could still butt it throw or sock it.


No, she would kill me before that -
An empty gun,
I need to use it but how ?
Then a thought slowly crept within...
What she doesn't know could hurt her now.


An empty gun, like an empty mind
Is a very dangerous thing.
Deemed by most as devoid of uses,
It can give the upper hand
In the deadliest of deuces.


"Now leave the money right there
and just back off, OK ?"
Said I, and pointed the gun to her head.
"I don't want it messy.
Go away now" I said.


She was shocked to see my weapon
Her eyes betrayed her calm face.
"I-I'm leaving you ___ and I'm taking some money as well"
"You're stealing, you damn thief !" I cut in.
That made her as mad as hell.


She threw her dagger at me,
With all her might but little aim.
It missed me by a mile.
"Ha !" I laughed out
"You're all mine now" I said with a smile.


I still pointed the gun at her
And advanced with delicate steps.
Stopped when I was a few feet
away, and the gun inches from her.
She would still not make a retreat.


She started backing out now
with slow and trembling steps.
"Don't kill me" she cried.
Still with valise in hand,
she fell over the balcony and died.


---****-****---


I called the ambulance
much later than I called the cops.
I had enough money to handle both -
Enough for the police to mishandle evidence,
Ample for the diener to renounce the doctoral oath.


An empty gun like an fallen ganglord,
Can still hold much power.
Power that is still immense.
Power to turn the tables,
power to influence......


I pondered much later,
the events of the day.
The mode of death the girl deserved, she got.....
And then slightly satisfied -
Atleast my gun didn't have to waste a shot.


There. It's a little long isn't it ?( like most of my other poems). Do comment if you like it, and suggest alternatives if you don't - even if the post becomes dated. C'mon - please.

Anything is welcome as long is it is not an indication of the reader's imbecility.

'But it rained' ---- Parikrama

Swirling heat was rising up from the baked summer earth cruelly mocking its habitants ....

And up in the sky a cloud could take it no longer - It broke apart and the earth was blessed with rain.

All this time, I was sitting at home trying to while away a rare power outage, cursing my dependence on machines (as I am cursing right about now). I picked up a dynamo powered radio (hand-crunk) and turned it on. Most of the (popular) stations blared fizzed-up remixes and pseudo - hip-hop. I switched to AIR and was pleased to find one of my favourite old Hindi songs playing. It was 'Main shayar toh nahin' by Shailendra Singh [I used to think Mukesh sang it, you know - Mukesh (JG's granpa)] . I began listening at that climactic moment when Singh croons


"Main toh uljha raha uljhanon ki tarah ,
Doston mein raha dushmanon ki tarah....
Main dushman toh nahin"


The rain was wetting the plant pots with vengeance and my dog became restless as was its habit when it rained. It wished to wallow in the cool rainwater outside in the patio - I let it and joined Zoulo as it whooshed past my legs.


I could understand why rain had become such a integral symbolic aspect in so many film sequences (I forgot which ones - help me out here) in the past and the present.


Sad scenes were incomplete without a downpour as tears mingled with rainwater and get washed away....The anguished sufferer is left desolate in the rain in a pitiable state.


Happy sequences had showers of rain to signify an outburst of joyous and exuberant emotions.


Fight scenes needed rain to wash away blood and sweat when the hero and villain were engaged in free-for-all fisticuffs.


Romantic settings could not do without drizzles to illustrate the lovers' unity against adversity. To show their love and intimacy, they would be shown huddled under a single umbrella (or better still with no umbrella at all - but embracing each other and carefree in the the downpour).


Suspense and horror movies had accompanying thunder and lightning to go along with them, to intensify the drama and to induce that 'edge of the seat' effect, if not overdone (if overdone, it tends to be a bit irksome).


And dance sequences...( :D)
Put bluntly the same rules for romantic scenes apply and....rain makes clothes figure -hugging (!), which goes very well with hot numbers.


Being such a harried multitasker the rain is still kind enough to raise my spirits on a boring day such as this.Here's my thanks.

First : Even Stranger

After school the other day, I cut a detour to the park, right from the bus stop, along with the bag and all. It had been an unusual day, with the frequency of unusual days experiencing a sharp increase over the past few weeks in my new section. What had really made me feel rather awkward were numerous small things such as the fact that silently studious ( and some rather boring ) new admissions way more than half the class; the fact that even though I wanted to , I failed to pluck the courage to make new connections, even though I had the psychological confidence-booster of being an ol' boy and they being new adms.

The fact that I felt largely out of place among my new classmates and friend base. Their language was riddled with innuendo ; their jokes - as they believe them to be - were full of tasteless double-entendres and unfamiliar slang.

You could in fact call my presence a learning experience ( albeit a horrid one ) with me learning new words every day.

To take some time out from the day's fast-paced idiocy I sat on one of the park's many vacant benches in the lush green park covering approximately two acres of land ( I think its three times as big as the school football field ) . It was right beside a temple with a towering Hanuman statue; Beautiful as it was I didn't really care much for temples - I am an agnostic theist ( that's another thing that worried me - If God really exists and I didn't believe completely in him my whole life, I'd be in HELLuva lot of trouble when I die. ) but I always fancied the nicely maintained park attached. Though occasional litter was a bit disconcerting, this is Delhi after all - not utopia. Delhi is close I agree but not completely what one would expect from paradise.

With some quiet stolen time ( I managed to put away the annoying thought of studying for the 100 marks maths test to be held on Monday. Maths was too off-putting . I had still not managed to convince anyone that psychology was way better ). I proceeded to take a much battered note pad from my bag ( which I always carried around ) & sought to improve upon an earlier poem which I had written - 'Empty Gun' .The bad poetry with its skewed rhyme scheme (A B C D C )needed correcting, but at the risk of sounding immodest the idea was really good ( its about a guy who manages to kill his ex using an empty gun ).After a few minutes of pondering for an elusive ( and exclusive ) word to rhyme with 'unworthy' ( I got earthy but it didn't fit in ), I gave in and decided to sit still and just soak in nature ( undoubtedly the easiest thing to do ).

I noticed a young guy (from the northeast - I noted from his features ) was studying me intensely from across the park. Though he was a stranger I now felt completely off guard and cursed him mentally for ruining "me time". Within a jiffy I noticed that the starer had approached my bench and was looking at the still open notebook. I was startled when I realised that he had been standing there for a long time and said (lied most probably ) 'nice - very nice'.

Taken off guard, I managed a fake smile.

We began speaking to each other next he got to know about me ( kid , 16 , strange , DPS ) and I him ( 19 , from Darjeeling , works in Hyatt regency as a chef in a Chinese restaurant named - how sordid - China Garden ). He invited my family over as if he owned the place which was childlike but nevertheless was touching.He told me about his schooldays with a nostalgic sigh in his voice and a dreamy glaze over his wide eyes. He did Arts in 12th and passed from a local school with 56 % ( which he tried to convince me was a decent score ).

He spoke with anger in his voice about the 'bloody' state government which he berated for not giving government positions to hill people from Darjeeling districts. He then handed me a pamphlet which had ' Gorkhaland Jansakti ' written on it in bold blue letters. He then cheesily urged my dad to come for a 'samm-aye-lan' (conference ) . It was intended to educate the people about the injustices done to Gorkhas.I took the pamphlet from his hands and lied that I'd convince my parents to go.It was his off day and my time off was nearing its end.

It was 3:30 and I was a late. As I stood up from the cool grass to go , I remembered to ask his name.' Dipankar ' he said smiling ' you can come discuss life with me on any Tuesday ! '

Its one thing having an hour-long talk with a friend ...but with a complete stranger - its something else. Try it out it wont kill you . honest


There !! My first ( and rather long too ) blog completed. Comment to make me feel better.