An errant leaf, precociously red,
tumbles down a deserted street
unnoticed by anyone,
save by a lonely woman
tending her garden
at an ungodly hour.
Tumbling indigo curls
brush her tumescent belly;
the life within
stirring to the night's song
and the contralto hum
of a strange lullaby.
"She is not of these parts,"
folks murmur.
“Oh! But, she sure keeps a fetching garden,"
escapes an exclamation.
The town is tense,
as its youth go missing, day by day.
She smiles
at her secret baby,
at the secret of her garden,
at the crunch of the marrow-brown earth
under her naked feet,
at the muffled pleas from the cellar.
A ripe, harvest moon
midwifes the birth of a brown-eyed girl
cleansed in her mother's deathblood.
The neighbors find the stray baby
in the fall-kissed garden
among the bones of her missing fathers.
The child carries the once-beauty
of the forgotten garden;
her dappled skin,
the map of a far-away land.
A kind heart takes her, in pity;
a mass grave obliterates her mother's sins.
Bloodthirst never parches the girl's throat
for she is both the Archangel,
generous and selfless to a fault,
and the sulpher-tongued Serpent,
at whose cagedoor
she paces unaware, once...upon...a time.
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
Capturing the Queen
Living in New Rome as I do, I have many occasions to question the very enterprise of truth or veracity. In my sometimes discombobulated state, I have found comfort in Prof. Harry Frankfurt's concise, philosophical essay -- "On Bullshit". His essay is particularly illuminating about why a bullshitter is a worse enemy of the truth than a lier. As Prof. Frankfurt notes, the difference between the two (i.e., a lier and a bullshitter) is a bullshitter's complete disregard for whether what she's saying corresponds to facts in the physical world: she "does not reject the authority of the truth, as the liar does, and oppose himself to it. [S]He pays no attention to it at all. By virtue of this, bullshit is a greater enemy of the truth than lies are."
Prof. Frankfurt also points to one source of bullshit's unprecedented expansion in recent years, the post-modern skepticism of objective truth in favor of sincerity, or as he defines it, staying true to subjective experience. But what makes us think that anything in our nature is more stable or inherent than what lies outside it? Thus, Prof. Frankfurt concludes, with an observation as tiny and perfect as the rest of this exquisite essay, "sincerity itself is bullshit." Ergo, Bush and Co. in New Rome are more precisely defined as bull-shitters and not liers as Jon Stewart recently implied by discussing this essay with Prof. Frankfurt on the Daily Show.
What does all this philosophical rumination have to do with the latest shocker from Bangladesh -- the indictment and arrest of Begum Sheikh Hasina on charges of extortion? All will be revealed, patient reader, in due time...
With all customary respect due to our esteemed and erstwhile politicians and to the military-backed, caretaker government, this current state of events has provided yet another martyr-complex-laden photo opportunity (replete with morning prayers and white chador; mysterious ailments to come) to one of the two queens (let's call her the Queen of Hearts and the other one the Red Queen) whose collective, 16-year reign has played into the Devil Kissinger's notorious appellations for Bangladesh --"bottomless basket case". Whew! If our goal is to expose these two women and their respective parties for what they truly represent -- the plutocratic interests of the rich and the few -- wouldn't we have been better served by patiently building a case against each of them, rather than whisking them off to court and then to jail and/or house arrest in luxury SUVs? How about a gag order so that no rabble-rousing speeches may be rendered by either of them while they are under investigation? What, there is no law on the books to sanction such an order? Make one up for hell's sake! BTW, given that the queens (not to mention, their friends and family members who mooch off of them) live WAY beyond their means, how hard can it be to implicate them with financial corruption? Or, from the kindness of our hearts, do we just want to provide for some long-overdue exile/vacation for them in Saudi Arabia (a la Nawaz Sharif) or even better, in Dubai (like Ms. Bhutto)? They HAVE been working so hard after all.
I also understand that the National Revenue Board (NBR) is busy compiling lists of tax dodgers, but what about the innumerable citizens who've funnelled hundreds of thousands of dollars to foreign banks instead of investing them in Bangladesh's financial sector? How do we change the corrupt mentality of the current generation of the affluent and their irresponsible, ney, criminal, parents? You know who you are:o) More importantly, into which ocean can we drown the new crop of 20- and 30-year old millionaires who gave Dhaka the glittering socialite scene it had sorely lacked in my humble youth. We better build some new jails! Or, here's an idea: let's ship the young lafangas off to some party central, e.g., Ibiza, so that Bengalis can finally break free of our nerdy, thaila-carrying, Tagore-quoting image. Put them to good use for "queens and country" I say!
Can a house that has been left unattended for so long (despite the best efforts of the honest few) be refurbished in a matter of days? Therein lies the hubris of the military. Administering a country is not like executing a commando mission, or even a full-scale war. Thus, getting rid of strategic targets will not necessarily ensure long-term success. And now, the denoument (drum rolls):
For all you standardized test-analogy-junkies, the queens and their cronies are to Bangladesh's civic society (or potential thereof) as "bullshit" is to "truth". The rest of us who've either remained indifferent or gone along with "business as usual", despite our non-bloody hands, are to our country as "lies" is to "truth". We should have known better and acted differently instead of squandering away the last couple of decades. It's time for our ritual ablutions, if you will. But, my cynical self is afraid that "all the perfumes in Arabia cannot sweeten this little hand."
Prof. Frankfurt also points to one source of bullshit's unprecedented expansion in recent years, the post-modern skepticism of objective truth in favor of sincerity, or as he defines it, staying true to subjective experience. But what makes us think that anything in our nature is more stable or inherent than what lies outside it? Thus, Prof. Frankfurt concludes, with an observation as tiny and perfect as the rest of this exquisite essay, "sincerity itself is bullshit." Ergo, Bush and Co. in New Rome are more precisely defined as bull-shitters and not liers as Jon Stewart recently implied by discussing this essay with Prof. Frankfurt on the Daily Show.
What does all this philosophical rumination have to do with the latest shocker from Bangladesh -- the indictment and arrest of Begum Sheikh Hasina on charges of extortion? All will be revealed, patient reader, in due time...
With all customary respect due to our esteemed and erstwhile politicians and to the military-backed, caretaker government, this current state of events has provided yet another martyr-complex-laden photo opportunity (replete with morning prayers and white chador; mysterious ailments to come) to one of the two queens (let's call her the Queen of Hearts and the other one the Red Queen) whose collective, 16-year reign has played into the Devil Kissinger's notorious appellations for Bangladesh --"bottomless basket case". Whew! If our goal is to expose these two women and their respective parties for what they truly represent -- the plutocratic interests of the rich and the few -- wouldn't we have been better served by patiently building a case against each of them, rather than whisking them off to court and then to jail and/or house arrest in luxury SUVs? How about a gag order so that no rabble-rousing speeches may be rendered by either of them while they are under investigation? What, there is no law on the books to sanction such an order? Make one up for hell's sake! BTW, given that the queens (not to mention, their friends and family members who mooch off of them) live WAY beyond their means, how hard can it be to implicate them with financial corruption? Or, from the kindness of our hearts, do we just want to provide for some long-overdue exile/vacation for them in Saudi Arabia (a la Nawaz Sharif) or even better, in Dubai (like Ms. Bhutto)? They HAVE been working so hard after all.
I also understand that the National Revenue Board (NBR) is busy compiling lists of tax dodgers, but what about the innumerable citizens who've funnelled hundreds of thousands of dollars to foreign banks instead of investing them in Bangladesh's financial sector? How do we change the corrupt mentality of the current generation of the affluent and their irresponsible, ney, criminal, parents? You know who you are:o) More importantly, into which ocean can we drown the new crop of 20- and 30-year old millionaires who gave Dhaka the glittering socialite scene it had sorely lacked in my humble youth. We better build some new jails! Or, here's an idea: let's ship the young lafangas off to some party central, e.g., Ibiza, so that Bengalis can finally break free of our nerdy, thaila-carrying, Tagore-quoting image. Put them to good use for "queens and country" I say!
Can a house that has been left unattended for so long (despite the best efforts of the honest few) be refurbished in a matter of days? Therein lies the hubris of the military. Administering a country is not like executing a commando mission, or even a full-scale war. Thus, getting rid of strategic targets will not necessarily ensure long-term success. And now, the denoument (drum rolls):
For all you standardized test-analogy-junkies, the queens and their cronies are to Bangladesh's civic society (or potential thereof) as "bullshit" is to "truth". The rest of us who've either remained indifferent or gone along with "business as usual", despite our non-bloody hands, are to our country as "lies" is to "truth". We should have known better and acted differently instead of squandering away the last couple of decades. It's time for our ritual ablutions, if you will. But, my cynical self is afraid that "all the perfumes in Arabia cannot sweeten this little hand."
Friday, July 13, 2007
Night Watch at Cedarwood
My feet are restless tonight.
A solitary, impromptu walk
is a surprise even to myself.
The air is thick with lily musk.
Shards of glass wink at me from the sidewalk;
gems scattered before Bilquis.
The quiet conversation of dinner-full bellies
leaks out onto the street.
Two kids whirr by on bikes;
their words evicerating some poor othodontist.
A wandering cat flirts and then befriends me
but, only for a few paces,
before it immaterializes into the playful shadows.
The scent of lilies is overpowering.
A devasted little girl's turn is next;
her mind as addled and innocent as the cat's.
"Waz you name?" she asks.
"What's yours?" I counter.
"No, you first!" her shy retort.
A stray girl with a no-home.
"I've to go home," I say almost cruelly.
"Okay" as an indiscernible sigh escapes her.
The air seems choked with lily particles.
I keep walking,
now, anxious, to return
to the patter of quadrupeds and the broad smile
that awaits me at home.
Will they be there?
I turn the key.
Swift click and I'm in.
The smell of lilies melts into the night.
A solitary, impromptu walk
is a surprise even to myself.
The air is thick with lily musk.
Shards of glass wink at me from the sidewalk;
gems scattered before Bilquis.
The quiet conversation of dinner-full bellies
leaks out onto the street.
Two kids whirr by on bikes;
their words evicerating some poor othodontist.
A wandering cat flirts and then befriends me
but, only for a few paces,
before it immaterializes into the playful shadows.
The scent of lilies is overpowering.
A devasted little girl's turn is next;
her mind as addled and innocent as the cat's.
"Waz you name?" she asks.
"What's yours?" I counter.
"No, you first!" her shy retort.
A stray girl with a no-home.
"I've to go home," I say almost cruelly.
"Okay" as an indiscernible sigh escapes her.
The air seems choked with lily particles.
I keep walking,
now, anxious, to return
to the patter of quadrupeds and the broad smile
that awaits me at home.
Will they be there?
I turn the key.
Swift click and I'm in.
The smell of lilies melts into the night.
Lake Mavi*
Unreflective, glacine surface
of a forgotten lake,
its midnight blue,
no charm against the Evil within.
B-E-W-A-R-E! The monster rises,
bringing visions of a mass evacuation:
Silver lust for a beautiful, stranded stranger.
Yellow gluttony for the victuals of hungry children.
Blue greed of evacuees snatching the shadiest spots.
Pink sloth of emergency officials distracted from their tasks.
Crimson wrath of passengers at cancelled flights.
Verdant envy of those who can fend for themselves.
Purple pride of first world denizens flaunted over the third.
M-O-T-H-E-R! we are sinners all,
eternally falling, falling...
caught in the event horizon
of the unfathomable Mavi.
*Inspired by Lake Bafa in Southwestern Turkey
of a forgotten lake,
its midnight blue,
no charm against the Evil within.
B-E-W-A-R-E! The monster rises,
bringing visions of a mass evacuation:
Silver lust for a beautiful, stranded stranger.
Yellow gluttony for the victuals of hungry children.
Blue greed of evacuees snatching the shadiest spots.
Pink sloth of emergency officials distracted from their tasks.
Crimson wrath of passengers at cancelled flights.
Verdant envy of those who can fend for themselves.
Purple pride of first world denizens flaunted over the third.
M-O-T-H-E-R! we are sinners all,
eternally falling, falling...
caught in the event horizon
of the unfathomable Mavi.
*Inspired by Lake Bafa in Southwestern Turkey
A Whimpering End
Patter of innocent paws
fills an ancient home
in the murder capital
of a warring nation
that rules a world ticking down
around the star-heart of a system--
waiting for the inevitable nova.
The universe watches in glittering indifference;
no sympathy mustered
for its particle siblings
as galactic death unfolds
in bell jar silence.
fills an ancient home
in the murder capital
of a warring nation
that rules a world ticking down
around the star-heart of a system--
waiting for the inevitable nova.
The universe watches in glittering indifference;
no sympathy mustered
for its particle siblings
as galactic death unfolds
in bell jar silence.
A Streetcar Named 34
We climb the stairs of No. 34
oblivious to the incongruity
of a Celtic tune
played by a progeny of the first man.
As the car lurches through the entrail tunnels,
we teeter on our forced pole dance.
In a sea of striated human color,
our bubble air is clogged
with the cacophonous, constructive interference
of music leaking from trendy nanos and obsolete walkmans,
each person an island unto oneself.
Yet, once the silence barrier is broken,
strangers chat with false intimacy;
the steetcar is an uneasy democratizer.
A furtive school-boy "steps down" and out the doors,
his secret lost in the crowd.
A fragile beauty wrapped in browns and blues
is demolished by the unkind word of a fellow passenger.
Cipher graffiti taunt us with their secret code
as we emerge into light and wait,
wait patiently, to signal for our stop.
oblivious to the incongruity
of a Celtic tune
played by a progeny of the first man.
As the car lurches through the entrail tunnels,
we teeter on our forced pole dance.
In a sea of striated human color,
our bubble air is clogged
with the cacophonous, constructive interference
of music leaking from trendy nanos and obsolete walkmans,
each person an island unto oneself.
Yet, once the silence barrier is broken,
strangers chat with false intimacy;
the steetcar is an uneasy democratizer.
A furtive school-boy "steps down" and out the doors,
his secret lost in the crowd.
A fragile beauty wrapped in browns and blues
is demolished by the unkind word of a fellow passenger.
Cipher graffiti taunt us with their secret code
as we emerge into light and wait,
wait patiently, to signal for our stop.
We'll Never Know
Summer
haze makes the glittering tower sway.
Sloth of the brain
doesn't help either.
What made a silent family jump under the train?
I wonder, a world away.
haze makes the glittering tower sway.
Sloth of the brain
doesn't help either.
What made a silent family jump under the train?
I wonder, a world away.
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