BUTTERFLY NET
Ashok Niyogi
In the forest with my net and magnifying glass,
Sandwiches, coffee and all the equipment I need,
I catch and examine butterflies.
A stallion rides into my butterfly net
And once enmeshed,
Starts to neigh and stamp his feet
Crushing the grass flowers underneath.
I was out to catch a butterfly
But caught a horse instead.
EUCALYPTUS
Ashok Niyogi
In this manmade forest of eucalyptus
I come upon a roughly octagonal clearing.
In the afternoon, with the sun at a particular angle
The grass is as if it is on fire;
That is when madness rules for one half-hour.
I shed my clothes and dance to the invisible
drumbeats,
Faster and faster,
Until I go into a trance,
I dance my pagan dance
And then lie prone on the grass in a coma,
Drunken with the eucalyptus smell.
When the sunlight goes away
The fires are quenched and all is gloom,
I wake up and wearily trudge my way
Towards my jeep.
No headlights in the twilight
But the parking lights are on
As I drive my familiar way
To my cottage on the sand.
SUITCASES
Ashok Niyogi
Don’t you realize that in the tears of departure
There lies a violence unbidden
Because I don’t want to go.
Don’t you realize that in the fireworks
There is fire, controlled though.
Don’t you realize that in the suitcases of abandon
There is fashion, even if it were not so?
Don’t you realize that in the morning light
You decide my plight.
Don’t you realize that as the plane takes off,
It will take us to our destiny?
Don’t you realize that above the clouds
The light is bright?
BUTT-ENDS
Ashok Niyogi
Like the madman in matted hair
With a fixed stare
I assiduously collect the butt-ends of my days
From ash-trays:
I meticulously arrange them on my writing table
In descending order, longer to shorter
And then I carefully calculate
How much time I have left
After I have smoked the last cigarette.
It’s a wonderfully repetitive process
Now that I have learnt to hoard.
Now all I must do
Is keep a box of matches ready
To get on board.
EGO TRIP
Ashok Niyogi
I have nothing to say
That people want to hear
I have no flowers in my hair
Not attitudes even
But madmen mumble to themselves
And mumbling into a tape
I go on an ego trip,
I pretend to be a poet
Just like I pretend to be alone,
Or to be somebody or the other.
That’s good acting
Getting into the skin of the character you want to be,
We are actors, aren’t we?
On some, fortune smiles
And they make piles of money
In computer chips or miles
Of legs,
And some are alcoholics
Who end up in gutters beneath the dregs.
But most fortunate are those in-between
Who lie back in bedrooms
With quilts covering their bodies
Dreamless,
Sleepless,
Waiting,
Waiting forever.
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