81. A Lesser Poet
There was no oppression in the stars Just the sleepy grin of the moon, Satellites that looked natural, Mercury, and Mars.
A better poet would have captured The catastrophe in the fungus-grass Trampling over mossed rocks, Sucking it inside quicksand, And composed some allegory About the rich and their jollity Coming at the drowning of the mass.
A better poet would rage At the wind’s whistle Judge it as too warm or too cool And laugh at the lilies and thistles Dancing like fools to the tune Of the imperfect wind.
But that would be a better poet.
A lesser poet cannot abstract From the creepers, the larks, The dung-soaked soil, The smoke in the imperfect air, Honeybees buzzing like flies Or the neighs of the mare; Nor project them on human problems Like power, submission, Misinformation, something about revolution And melancholy on society’s mutation.
A lesser poet cannot find Salvation in constellations. We see only the green of the leaves, The height of the palm tree, Melody in the burbling rivulet Life in a lion shredding a deer, And magic in amulets.
We see only Logic in mathematics, Sharpness in knives, Sturdiness in teak trees And fairytales in fairy lights.
Who cares whether might is right? Who cares if the pen Is stronger than the sword? We are in love with our own words.
We are of a dull breed, But heed, For when we cast our eyes, We find no oppression in the stars.
82. The Other
Those rusted pins in eyelashes Flicker at my general sight Making mediocre of my might Strangling achievements in sleep.
All my journey and trivial intricacies Read like the last page of LIFE Velleties and vices i despise Guffawed at, rounded like sheep.
Were i more than They believe Were i more than They see Buried alive they remain, cowered from The masks and veils They conjure For me.
83. False Faces
“Imagine a time when history herself Is cleansed of her crimes! When Snooty-nosed do-gooders with evil In their eyes who just happened To win the right wars Are purged! Purged, like lice!
“And we no longer lurch from False face to false face, as they Live no longer, but are instead Towered by the real heroes of history The Gallant, the Unsung, the Heralds Of values we should base policies on Values we must teach our children And our brethren (Except for worshippers of False Face)
“For the streets will run red with blood Before history is overwritten by The irate! By those that hate! Their time is gone! Now it’s our turn!”
He was, she noted, Full of hate himself.
P.S. I hid behind the moniker of TINTA since the account was opened on Instagram. Truth be told, this has always been my natural impulse. If I had my way, none of my works would be attributed to me. I write a lot of miserable stuff, which I don’t want attributed to my character. I am proud of my writing, but it is also comfortably the worst of me—where my most cynical, nihilist and antisocial tendencies come to fruit.
For a while, I hoped I could hide behind TINTA forever. Perhaps anonymity is cowardice, but it has always been my impulse. But people tell me there’s nothing sustainable about the moniker strategy—that I must put my name, centralize my content, ensure I take credit for everything in a brutal industry, blah blah blah.
So, briefly, let me introduce myself: I am Neil Nagwekar from Mumbai, India.
I don’t plan on abandoning the moniker TINTA though. Because there is a story behind TINTA, and I think it will take quite some time for it to be completed.
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