By: Dr. Archan Mehta
Poem #1 Whimsical Muse
Sometimes,
You can will
It to happen,
And sometimes it is
Better to let it go;
And so, let it flow
From dormant consciousness,
Awakened suddenly,
To your pen, which
Then starts to write furiously.
Sometimes,
It happens that you
Are in the mood
To create a poem,
But can’t find the
Right words, and
Ideas scamper away
Like a squirrel climbing
A Bunyan tree.
Sometimes,
The muse frets and fumes,
And breaks the rules,
And words and ideas
File for a divorce
Like estranged lovers
With irreconcilable differences.
Words take ideas to court,
A court full of crooked lawyers,
A sympathetic, old judge,
And sleepy-eyed jury members
With stifled yawns, who couldn’t
Care less about the outcome.
Meanwhile,
The media and paparazzi
Try to cover this story
Putting two and two together
While well-wishers like family
Members and art aficionados
Pensively watch the couple
Engaged in slanging matches
And fisticuffs
But advise them to align
Their forces to create poetry.
Sometimes,
The muse visits
The poet
When he least
Expects her to:
In the middle
Of a song in a shower,
In the middle
Of a ball game,
In the middle
Of a football match,
In the middle of
A ride to the moon,
In the middle
Of a high-level meeting,
In the middle of
A nap or deep sleep,
In the middle of
Breakfast, lunch, or dinner,
Or in the middle of
A Friday night ballroom dance.
The poet has no control
Over the muse
And she comes and goes
As she pleases
Without permission
And without invitation.
Sometimes,
The muse arrives
In a poet’s life
Carrying a large
Carving knife in one hand
and a blow-dryer in another
and demands of the poet
that she wants to
get her nails done
at a fancy boutique shop
in a five-star resort or else.
Once the muse makes
Her intentions known,
The poet has no choice
But to fork out the
Cold, hard cash
From his wallet
And entertain the
Muse with a song
And a dance,
Take her out to
The latest blockbuster
Movie and buy her
Buttered popcorn and a
Large glass of soda with ice.
Finally, when it is time
To leave, the muse
Excuses herself to
The rest-room,
Where she must powder
Her nose to look pretty
And she disappears
From sight and
Does not return
To her seat.
The miserable poet
Runs here and there
And everywhere,
Searching in vain
For his lost muse,
And asks about
His muse in the
“lost and found department,”
But receives glares
And an assertive no
But in a civil tone.
Finally, the wretched
Poet returns home exhausted.
Poem #2: Dharavi, Bombay Slum
Baby,
I don’t exactly know
How you feel, but
Maybe I can guess:
It must have been difficult
For you to have to go
To sleep on an empty stomach.
The billionaires who lived
Next door, refused to fetch
You the bottle of milk
You were pining for.
Meanwhile, our government
Officials called “public servants”
Abandoned you for votes.
After all, these eminent
Personalities wanted to maintain
Their lead in a “competitive marketplace”
And conveniently forgot
About your needs because
You did not exist for them.
A few concerned, private
Citizens tried to help you
With charitable donations
But the NGOs wired their
Millions and billions to
Swiss Bank Accounts and
Looked the other way.
Passersby noticed your
Slum in India, but could
Not stop because they were
Late and had to rush to work.
Mother Teresa showered her
Blessings from Heaven but
That did not make a dent
In your emaciated universe.
In addition, the Gods, I guess,
Were not available in paradise
And put your call on hold
And said sorry for the inconvenience.
The greedy and selfish capitalists
Protested against welfare schemes,
Government subsidies and free
Hand-outs and advised you to
Work for a living and get a job
Paying minimum wage although
You were only two years old.
After all, the market system had
No room for your silent tears.
The fat cats, who were tax
Evaders lined their own
Pockets with “black money”
And escaped to foreign
Countries or even tropical
Islands where they could
Not be traced because our
Government did not have
Any jurisdiction there.
Meanwhile, there was
No running water to
Clean your bottom in
The slum where your
People lived. The media
Salivated over covering
The “lifestyles of the rich
And famous” and elites
Invited other elites to
Party with them
On board private yachts.
The humanitarian workers
Protested on serpentine streets
But the police intervened on
Behalf of powerful lobbyists
And ordered the protestors
To go home or else face retaliation.
Quietly, the protestors returned
Home to conceive babies, returned
To their day jobs so they could
Eke out a living and provide
For their families. Meanwhile, mean
People, who had plenty of food
On their tables, demonstrated no
Empathy and abandoned you
For greener pastures in
The stock market and beyond.
Spoilt brats played with
Their imported toys
In the swanky suburbs
Of South Bombay without
Your company.
Your parents, Blue-collar workers, stayed
Hungry for years so that
You could have bread crumbs
To eat for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
The World Bank, International Monetary
Fund, the United Nations, and other
Transnational bodies sent their agents
To report and document your pitiable
Condition but the status quo
Stayed the same, and there was
No improvement for your people.
Your name turned into a faceless
Number for history and its accountants.
Poem #3: Love Song for Avantika Tagore
Avantika, I want you to
Know that I miss
Everything about you:
I crave the way your tongue
Languidly slithers like a
Poisonous serpent in elephant grass,
I crave the nape of your open neck,
I crave the way you toss your hair
When you flirt with me,
I crave the movement of
Your body, soft and silky,
Like a gazelle floating
In an Amazon rain forest.
I crave your sweet laughter,
Which is like an oasis discovered
Suddenly in the desert
Which I call my life.
I crave the elegance of your
Embroidered sari tenderly
Hugging your lovely skin,
I even crave the expensive
Jewelry you wear to please me.
Avantika, I spend my nights
Chasing after you in my
Dreams like demons terrorizing
The ancient sages meditating
Silently in the foothills of
The Himalayas.
Avantika, I want to
Forget about you but
My mind is flooded by
Memories of you: the gentle
Caress of your naked hands
On my perspiring face,
The Bengali curried fish
And rice you served,
Which set my tongue on fire.
Avantika. your moon-shaped eyes
Which revealed the secrets
Of our universe.
Avantika, when you did
Not call today; I started
Running and entering an
Open field, and I was alone.
I bitterly complained to the
Lord, about your neglect
And I was greeted by
A spontaneous shower
From Heaven to comfort me.
After that, our good and dear
Lord sent fluffy clouds,
Which descended from
The sky, to settle on my
Shoulders and covered
Me in a warm embrace,
Like a blanket for solace.
Avantika, I still remember
The furtive glances we
Exchanged years ago,
In the café located on
Market square road,
And I secretly captured
Your photo, from a
Distance, without
Asking for your permission.
You were sitting with
Your girlfriends and,
When you laughed,
Your smile reminded
Me of Leonardo Da
Vinci’s painting of
Mona Lisa hanging
On walls around the world.
Avantika, I was too shy
To approach you: I wanted
To say “hello” but your
Beauty intimidated me
Like a stranger who
Bullies children in school.
Avantika, years ago,
On the campus of
Jadavpur University,
You walked past me,
As if I did not exist,
But I inhaled the
Sweet perfume of
Your body and I
Almost lost consciousness
Thinking about you.
Avantika, please do not
Leave the privacy of
Your home, even for
One second, for I know
That, if you do, husbands
Will leave their wives
And boyfriends will
Abandon their girlfriends
To follow you and win
Your heart with gifts and more.
Avantika, if you walk outdoors,
Rest assured; there will be
Traffic jams, road accidents:
Arteries of men will get
Clogged and even grandfatherly
Types will suffer from
Heart attacks: women will
Stare at you rudely, envying
Your beauty and they will
Not wish you well for
Stealing their lovers with
Your fatal glances.
Avantika, you possess
An inner glow: a peerless
Beauty which all women
Crave but will never own:
Today, I remember your
Charming smile which
Bring corpses back to life.
Poem #4: Tragic Poet
Gentle readers:
It is time for me
To reveal a simple truth:
Therefore, I have this
Information to share with
You about the tragedy of
My poetic life upon our earth.
I passed my time growing up,
In a rustic, crude, provincial
Village named “Ahmedabad.”
Although this place claimed
To be a city, in reality, I found
The people here to be like
Mercenary mercantilists: petty
Traders and simpleton shop-keepers
Obsessed only with how to
Turn a quick profit.
Between open and shut shops,
The minds of the locals were
Closed to art and artists, so
Education and cultural activities
Were marginalized and creative
Spirits were told, in no uncertain
Terms to exit through the door.
In this cultural wasteland, yours
Truly was the lone voice of sanity
In a toxic environment, only concerned
About market forces, demand, and supply
Equations and ownership of land and property.
After all, everybody who was anybody in
This dry and dusty village
Joined the “family business,” counted coins,
And invested in government bonds, mutual
Funds and stocks and shares.
Without a vibrant artistic scene,
Intrusive people asked about your
Income, your net worth, and judged
You based on what you owned.
For example, if you did not drive
A fancy car, if you did not reside in
A mansion or at least a bungalow,
You were considered an unfortunate
Soul, a lesser mortal, and people would
Invariably and inevitably say nasty
Things about you in your absence.
Fashionable socialites hosted
Kitty parties and catty women would
Gloat over their expensive jewels,
High heeled shoes and talk endlessly
About their shopping sprees
In Dubai, New York City,
And London, duty-free.
The British Library in
Khanpur would be visited
By black crows absent
Any human beings because
The people here were semi-
Literate and had no interest
In the written word. The English
Language was tertiary and, instead,
People would happily converse
In their mother tongue, Gujarati,
With a smattering of Hindi thrown
In for good measure.
If you claimed to be a poet,
The villagers would roll their eyes
Over and tongues would start
Wagging, and told you to
Land a job and make a pile of cash.
In those days, every Gujarati wanted
To leave India and migrate to a foreign
Country to make a fortune and buy
Useless things so they could return
Home to boast about their accomplishments
On foreign shores.
The miserable locals would
Ask questions and listen patiently, and would
Aspire to join the stampede abroad.
What passed for formal education here
Would land you a job, eventually, that is,
If you got lucky.
So you could be paid peanuts and exploited
Like slave labor during ancient times.
Without financial support, I found myself in a fix,
Having to fend for myself and created
Poetry in splendid isolation,
Behind a locked door, to escape
From the ugly masses,
Who discouraged me
From pursuing my passion.
I turned inward, a reclusive
And timid soul who relied
On his whimsical muse
For sustenance and to
Find inner bliss because
Happiness did not exist.
In the meantime, the
Gujarati community,
Without a care in the world,
Made their millions and bought
Expensive goods and services
And wined and dined at elite
Clubs and restaurants and
Vacationed in Zurich, Switzerland,
Without reading a book
And ignoring creative
People like yours truly.
When they returned from
Their vacations abroad, they
Would boast in a shallow
And superficial ways about
Drinking expensive Champagne
And staying at five-star resorts
And sending their children
To Oxford, Cambridge, LSE,
Harvard, Yale, and Stanford.
They had plenty of cold, hard
Cash to throw around but
Demonstrated no curiosity,
No aesthetic sensibility, no knowledge,
And lacking any imagination.
Bio: Dr. Archan Mehta
Archan Mehta has earned a Ph.D. in Management. Currently, Dr. Mehta is a Consultant and Writer based in India who trains clients in Stress Management through the ancient practice of meditation.
Dr. Mehta’s articles and case studies have been featured in HR Future. HR Future is a leading HR magazine based in South Africa, sourced by prestigious ivy league schools in America (USA) like Harvard and Princeton.
In 1990, Dr. Mehta won a national award for a short story in Onlooker Magazine based in Bombay (Mumbai), Maharashtra, India. The Judge was the late, great Khushwant Singh, India’s celebrated Journalist, Editor, Author, and Columnist.
Dr. Mehta’s works have appeared in numerous publications:
- American Poetry Anthology
- Poets United to Advance the Arts
- The Times of India
- The Indian Express
- Mid-Day
- HR Future, Business Manager
- India Today
- Sportsweek
- The Statesman
- Ahmedabad Mirror
- All India Management Association
- People Matters
- Society for Human Resource Management
- Onlooker
Dr. Mehta is a member of several professional organizations, such as Society for Human Resource Management, Indian Society for Training and Development, Academy of HRD, Rural Marketing Association of India, Ahmedabad Management Association, Human Resource Association of India, Society for Applied Behavioral Sciences, National HRD Network and All India Management Association.
Dr. Mehta likes to stroll outdoors, listen to music, party with close friends, and read in his free time.
Please feel free to reach out to the poet at archanm@hotmail.com or throughLinkedIn.
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