Now that there's time to read and introspect

Suketu Mehta in the NYT

Dilip D'souza in the Washinton Post

Naresh Fernandes in The New Republic (See also his piece on Jews in Bombay)

And these pieces, on their blogs, by Amit Varma, Sonia Faleiro and Rahul Bhatia.

And these by Prem Panicker: 1, 2 & 3 (the latter two link to some other excellent pieces as well).

And this, by Ingrid Srinath (read also Priyanka Joseph's comment on that post).

And while we're about it, let us also say that we count all these names among our friends. Except for Mr Mehta; but then we have drunk his booze in Jai Hind the night he won the Crossword Book Award, so perhaps we can claim him too. At any rate, Mr M, in the unlikely event that you're reading this, when you're next in the city, maybe I can buy you a drink? A cheaper one, though.

Abide with me

Abide with me; fast falls the eventide;
The darkness deepens; Lord with me abide.
When other helpers fail and comforts flee,
Help of the helpless, O abide with me.

Swift to its close ebbs out life’s little day;
Earth’s joys grow dim; its glories pass away;
Change and decay in all around I see;
O Thou who changest not, abide with me.

Not a brief glance I beg, a passing word;
But as Thou dwell’st with Thy disciples, Lord,
Familiar, condescending, patient, free.
Come not to sojourn, but abide with me.

Come not in terrors, as the King of kings,
But kind and good, with healing in Thy wings,
Tears for all woes, a heart for every plea—
Come, Friend of sinners, and thus bide with me.

Thou on my head in early youth didst smile;
And, though rebellious and perverse meanwhile,
Thou hast not left me, oft as I left Thee,
On to the close, O Lord, abide with me.

I need Thy presence every passing hour.
What but Thy grace can foil the tempter’s power?
Who, like Thyself, my guide and stay can be?
Through cloud and sunshine, Lord, abide with me.

I fear no foe, with Thee at hand to bless;
Ills have no weight, and tears no bitterness.
Where is death’s sting? Where, grave, thy victory?
I triumph still, if Thou abide with me.

Hold Thou Thy cross before my closing eyes;
Shine through the gloom and point me to the skies.
Heaven’s morning breaks, and earth’s vain shadows flee;
In life, in death, O Lord, abide with me.



I'm not religious. Haven't been since my teens. But this hymn can make me cry. It was the favourite of one of my grandmothers. Also a favourite of Gandhi's (which us why you'll hear it at events associated with him), and just about the only thing my nana had in common with the Mahatma, who she didn't like very much. And it was sung at my mother's funeral last year.

Godawful Poetry Fortnight - 13

Good poetry, I say, is never hard,
Oh so easy, just look at me!
Dante did struggle, as did the Bard
And other writers of poetry,
When compared to good ol' me,
Faded hacks trail by many a yard.
(Ulysses wishes that I had been free —
Look what he got with that Tennyson laird.)

So come, gather round, kick off your shoes!
On our pedestal come rest your weary heads.
Now watch as we perform, we do party tricks!
No sweat, we could do this without getting out of bed.
Even two-in-one deals, you can't lose!
(This poem is also an acrostic.)

Godawful Poetry Fortnight

Godawful Poetry Fortnight - 12

In which we do keh-mukarni His pulse is racing, heart a-flutter, Into the night,, he pines, he's tense Does he expect a love letter? No, cupcake, he waits for blog comments And anthadi How do I love thee, let me count the ways. The ways in which I love thee, I shall enumerate this day. A summer's days I shall compare thee to. To find another line to steal too. Stole my heart away you did. Didn't you? And I forgot to rhyme that bit. Bits an pieces make sense here. Here I am, half-asleep in frog pajamas. Pajamas, Bahamas, I love the Lama's Llamas. Llamas are found in Peru. Guavas are found in my garden. Gardens are nice places to end poems. Except I need to bring this back to an ending that locks with the beginning. How? Godawful Poetry Fortnight

Goddawful Poetry Fortnight - Guest Post 3

Another anonymous submission, from the bashful poet who wrote this one.

Day before I thought I found my calling
With my first godawful poet penned
So I sit today to write another
To this all my faculties I lend

And then I realize that no words flow
I write cruddy muck and backspace and delete
What I write sounds too awful to be godawful
And yet I feel no conceit

My poem is too bad to be good-bad poetry
And yet not so craptacular that its good
It is poetic when it should not be
And yet too odious to be withstood

What does one do when she can’t write good rhyme
And can’t write bad rhyme either?
Does she write prose then?
Or from composing take a breather?

What can be worse that not be able to not write;
Not be able to write sucky enough?
Especially when you can’t even write things well
Can life give you a better rebuff?

The godawful poet relinquishes her throne
She decides to call it a day
And maybe its just in time too
Because doesn’t the fornight end tomorrow?

Godawful Poetry Fortnight

Goddawful Poetry Fortnight - Guest Post 2

by Annie M Mathews

I slouched at my computer disconsolate
My inbox empty as it was wont to be
When suddenly there came a spate
Of mail I greeted with much glee
Viagra, meds, ten-inch you-know-whats
Everything to hit the ‘other’ spots

Messages in English and Spanish too
Inviting me to visit their page
My heart to point of bursting grew
When offered work with plentiful wage
I skimmed, perused, mulled and soared
To be thus wanted had me floored

I little knew what worlds there lay
With a little link that led elsewhere
So very many with so much to say
The few of words had much to bare
And now when on my comp I slouch
Mail I will receive, for this I vouch

Go find more: Godawful Poetry Fortnight or search Google

Godawful Poetry Fortnight - 11

The admiring masses have, no doubt, noted the variety of forms we, in our verse-a-tility (ooh, he puns too!) have showcased. This next one's in blank verse.











Blank. Geddit? Geddit?


Godawful Poetry Fortnight

Goddawful Poetry Fortnight - Guest Post 1

From a friend who prefers to remain anonymous. We wonder why.

I have never been much of a poet, not I
But this noble cause made me try
For even if poems make me nod
-off to sleep, godawful poetry strikes a chord

Is it the whole wretchedness of it
That wrings my heart to complete grit?
Just like pity for the hungry tramp
Is it the abjectness that makes my eyes damp?

Is it the brave face godawful poets don
Under assault of classic poetry they hold in scorn?
And attack it back with absolute tripe
That looks like it appeared spontaneously on an asswipe?

As I write these words at night
I see the end-of-the-tunnel light
Could it be that godawful rhyme
Holds the key to the heavens sublime?

Godawful Poetry Fortnight

Godawful Poetry Fortnight - 10

Saved this in drafts and forgot to post it. Apologies, oh ye teeming masses.

Many words worth

I wandered lonely as a cloud
With acid rain and no antacid pills,
When all at once I belched aloud
It was like several textile mills.
Around me several old ladies
Fell, coughing, to their knees.

It had shades of turpentine
And gutters on a summers day,
And bits of tripe — i.e. intestine —
And rotting fish in a stagnant bay.
Ten thousand slew I with that burp
Top that, Kid Billy, and Wyatt Earp!

Poison gasses kill, sure, but they
Are nothing to that awesome burst
Agent Orange had a nice bouquet
Compared to the smell that we produced.
I breathed deep but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

Oft, when on my commode I sit
Indigestion having driven me there,
Summoning up a good old .. never-mind,
And the sound and vapours fill the air;
The odours we produce are solid, tangible, big!
But that eructation that day was in a different league.

We have outdone ourselves, no?

Godawful Poetry Fortnight

Godawful Poetry Fortnight - 9

Poetic forms are many today, like the ghazal
Many poets I know, they say they like the ghazal

I too tried many times to write one,
They never come out close, nay, not like a ghazal

Other poets write them easily, I see:
My friend Jeet can write and recite from memory, on the mic, a gazill-

-ion of them before breakfast, the swine,
Me, I am still struggling to write a wee tyke of a ghazal

I tried writing them sitting down, standing up,
lying down, walking, even on my bike. No ghazal.

My words leap, bound, run, sprint, jink,
Like they're running from a sher, and like I'm a gazelle.

So we wind up seeking solace in wine;
Zig, he much prefers *hic* to have a guzzle.

Godawful Poetry Fortnight