Poem
Mona Zote
Rez
Rez
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A boy & his gun: that’s an image will doto sum up our times
to define the red lakes
and razor blade hills of our mind. Out here this place never changes, never will
we will keep choosing grey salt, bad roads,
some thin yellow flowers to grieve, alcohol over friendship . . .
cash for peace, God’s grin of despair. If you think I’m starting to regret
sticking around and kicking at the tombstones
(if not pulling out the ak-47)
remember the water lilies will bind you back.
Trenchcoat todesengel bringing meaning to life thru death, thru
an intimate if facile study of pain
and those other mental stuff like drawing
pictures of war
people getting shot
houses pulled down
heads shorn
traditional law custom kultur
junkies runners bootleggers scum scum scum
We too have spent our brutal spring exacerbated
by a long tradition of self-enforced isolation,
continued into a cold-blooded summer (I feel
nothing
I fear
nothing)
we said it wasn’t intentional
and the grasshopper susurrus of our blood tells us
how
you feel almost an ability to be worse than what you are
(Perhaps this explains why today in the middle of my room
a black hole soundlessly spins).
Look, kid, thank you for the demonstration
& don’t forget to take your angel home
even if you don’t feel like going back to school
& if they ask you about life on the reservation
if they say they want to hear about stilt houses
and the dry clack of rain on bamboo
and the preservation of tribal ways
give them a slaughter.
II
Let’s hear from you, Angel. Incredibly,
He spake: “Four a.m. I rose from
the silicon box, wings quivering triumphant
if bleary-eyed, knuckles cramped,
having gunned down Virtual Viktor the smiling Rooskie, my erstwhile
friend, piss-full of vodka as he went – like the young in one another’s arms
drowning among the waves. You remember
Star Trek via Doordarshan?
Do you remember? – Those Sunday ceremonies of mantraps
and armageddon now!, logic and adventure,
new worlds braver than the last, those tinpan ships from an
interstellar Nineveh: amok times, yes. Also aboriginal.
My shoes are Japanese
Christ, I can’t forget Yaqob, surefire bet in the pro wrestling ring –
man’s champ or scapegoat, who can tell? He got the better
of me in the end but I . . .
I nailed his dreams to the cold ground.
In the distance, the guitars of Byzantium wept.
No, don’t go there!
There be whales, cap’n, and pearls and eyes.
Thus let us venture to the noodle bar –”
The immortal game
“– Mister Nighttime, what say? Admit modernity in, sepia anime! Who
mourns for Adonis or Umrao Jaan? D’you remember what the children sang –
Your warriors are gone with Billy Bowlegs
and Billy Budd swings from the mast
O moments that have passed like tears in rain
Toke this: things have to be the way they are
because gods can’t remember, we angels do. In this
we are as mortal as you
though fiery we fell.
Swaraj: acid anthem in our veins.
But heart is truly Hindoostani
So many have fallen . . . these cinnamon groves. I swear . . .
I swear by the Wumpus, by Alphaman,
– the world’s become
one big reservation. I should know,
I’m the Angel. I’m
in charge. You feel
that tightening of the temples as at some
momentous corner-turn of history? This tale, I fear, has just
begun to unfurl. Don’t be afraid. Have a tsing pao – else, coffee?
Stay with me, boss. Stay.”
Screw it, let’s dance!
or do origami.
III
A mindless year of mindless action.
If the moon looks grey tonight, if you think she weeps,
it is because
you live on a reservation
If as you walked the houses rose on all sides threatening,
it is because
you live on a reservation
If the wind brings no news of love, if the villas are silent
and empty, it is because
you live on a reservation
The things you have to say, no one can say them for you
The places you have to go, no one can go there for you
The hills you have to burn, no one can burn them for you.
© 2006, Mona Zote
From: Indian Literature
Publisher: Sahitya Akademi, New Delhi
From: Indian Literature
Publisher: Sahitya Akademi, New Delhi
Poems
Poems of Mona Zote
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Rez
A boy & his gun: that’s an image will doto sum up our times
to define the red lakes
and razor blade hills of our mind. Out here this place never changes, never will
we will keep choosing grey salt, bad roads,
some thin yellow flowers to grieve, alcohol over friendship . . .
cash for peace, God’s grin of despair. If you think I’m starting to regret
sticking around and kicking at the tombstones
(if not pulling out the ak-47)
remember the water lilies will bind you back.
Trenchcoat todesengel bringing meaning to life thru death, thru
an intimate if facile study of pain
and those other mental stuff like drawing
pictures of war
people getting shot
houses pulled down
heads shorn
traditional law custom kultur
junkies runners bootleggers scum scum scum
We too have spent our brutal spring exacerbated
by a long tradition of self-enforced isolation,
continued into a cold-blooded summer (I feel
nothing
I fear
nothing)
we said it wasn’t intentional
and the grasshopper susurrus of our blood tells us
how
you feel almost an ability to be worse than what you are
(Perhaps this explains why today in the middle of my room
a black hole soundlessly spins).
Look, kid, thank you for the demonstration
& don’t forget to take your angel home
even if you don’t feel like going back to school
& if they ask you about life on the reservation
if they say they want to hear about stilt houses
and the dry clack of rain on bamboo
and the preservation of tribal ways
give them a slaughter.
II
Let’s hear from you, Angel. Incredibly,
He spake: “Four a.m. I rose from
the silicon box, wings quivering triumphant
if bleary-eyed, knuckles cramped,
having gunned down Virtual Viktor the smiling Rooskie, my erstwhile
friend, piss-full of vodka as he went – like the young in one another’s arms
drowning among the waves. You remember
Star Trek via Doordarshan?
Do you remember? – Those Sunday ceremonies of mantraps
and armageddon now!, logic and adventure,
new worlds braver than the last, those tinpan ships from an
interstellar Nineveh: amok times, yes. Also aboriginal.
My shoes are Japanese
Christ, I can’t forget Yaqob, surefire bet in the pro wrestling ring –
man’s champ or scapegoat, who can tell? He got the better
of me in the end but I . . .
I nailed his dreams to the cold ground.
In the distance, the guitars of Byzantium wept.
No, don’t go there!
There be whales, cap’n, and pearls and eyes.
Thus let us venture to the noodle bar –”
The immortal game
“– Mister Nighttime, what say? Admit modernity in, sepia anime! Who
mourns for Adonis or Umrao Jaan? D’you remember what the children sang –
Your warriors are gone with Billy Bowlegs
and Billy Budd swings from the mast
O moments that have passed like tears in rain
Toke this: things have to be the way they are
because gods can’t remember, we angels do. In this
we are as mortal as you
though fiery we fell.
Swaraj: acid anthem in our veins.
But heart is truly Hindoostani
So many have fallen . . . these cinnamon groves. I swear . . .
I swear by the Wumpus, by Alphaman,
– the world’s become
one big reservation. I should know,
I’m the Angel. I’m
in charge. You feel
that tightening of the temples as at some
momentous corner-turn of history? This tale, I fear, has just
begun to unfurl. Don’t be afraid. Have a tsing pao – else, coffee?
Stay with me, boss. Stay.”
Screw it, let’s dance!
or do origami.
III
A mindless year of mindless action.
If the moon looks grey tonight, if you think she weeps,
it is because
you live on a reservation
If as you walked the houses rose on all sides threatening,
it is because
you live on a reservation
If the wind brings no news of love, if the villas are silent
and empty, it is because
you live on a reservation
The things you have to say, no one can say them for you
The places you have to go, no one can go there for you
The hills you have to burn, no one can burn them for you.
From: Indian Literature
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