Tuesday, August 14, 2018


Poems of Angst

Bsm Murty

The Mask

Who are these people
Who surround me
At this late hour
With their faces masked
In weird grimaces
Ogling with green glinting eyes
Their bat-ears protruding wide
Swaddled under their dark cloaks
In their hairy nakedness
I seem to know them
Each one of them
At one point of time
Beyond the present
In the labyrinths of the past
I have often seen them
Lurking in dark alleys
Peering into half-shut windows
Mumbling cabbalistic syllables
Scratching their pubes
Spitting out venom
Singed by their own flames
Of pride, envy and hatred
Burning to ashes
To nothing.


My presence is in my absence;
In my being, my cessation.
I am because I am not.
I am not because I am.
All you know, you don’t know.
You see only what you don’t see,
Hear what is not audible,
Touch what is ephemeral,
Smell only the déjà vu.

I am untruth’
The whole untruth,
And nothing but the untruth.

Yes, I am all, I’m everything.
Because I am nothing at all.

Whoever says there is no God
Knows not, because God Is;
Because his ‘isnotness’
Is impossible to prove,
Because what you don’t see
Or believe, also Is.

The invisible
The inaudible
The untouchable
Is the whole reality.

The Wall

‘Something there is that doesn’t love a wall’
It stands there silent and enigmatic.
Between desire and fulfilment.

Who raised it? This ugly wall?
How come it stands here brazenly
With its pockmarked face –
Hard, stony, savage, harsh, pitiless - 
Grimacing with criss-crossed shadows?

Rugged with malice and contumely.
It divides. It hides. It shuts out.
Blocking tear-filled eyes,
From gentle solicitous emotions,
Choking sighing sorrows,
From piercing its concrete barbarity.
Snuffing candles on vigil
For those who perished in pain.

Will it be there forever –this wall -
Indestructible, undemolishable, perpetual?
‘Something there is that doesn’t love a wall’
That stands forever silent and enigmatic.
Between desire and inertia.


What's it
Down under.
It's it
But what's its name
Why cant I say it aloud
Shout its name
From my rooftop
From the hill top
From the top of the Everest
What's it after all
Why all this cover up
All this pretence, hesitancy,
Shame, prevarication, euphemism
Why this obsession, this fear, this dread
This sense of guilt, of sin
In saying its name aloud
In speaking about its being
Why not bring it into the open
Into the sun, into fresh healthy breeze
Caressing its thick eyebrows
Why not let it sing
Its song of freedom
Freedom from millenia of slavery,
Torture, assault, bruising, mutilation
Why not break that iron chain
That has shackled it
From ages gone by
Let’s bow our heads to it
Let’s sing a paean for it
Let’s worship it
It made everything possible.

The Pitcher

I am  an earthen pitcher
Lying idle in a pitcher-maker’s backyard.
As I look around, I find many pitchers
Lying around me, some of them
Have their necks broken.
Others appear misshapen.
Hardly any are perfect in shape.
I get worried about myself:
Am I all well made?
Free from all defects?
Round and sound in shape?
How can I see myself?
They are all looking at me.
Am I in good shape?
Is nothing wrong with me?
How do I know?
Who can tell me?
Only the pitcher maker perhaps.

Mask : Painting by my American friend, Bill Nelson (C)

Read more of my poems on this blog in older posts:

2008: Feb 2     2010:Aug 24     2013:Sep 5, Oct 8, Nov 5
2014 : Dec 27