Friday, August 15, 2008

Another rum poem

Rumi, the great Sufi,
is in a way, three-fourths Rum
and a quarter I.

Yet, how blasphemous
would it be?
if I said
the flask of rum on my study table
doesn’t merely fulfill
the need for poetry or lovemaking
but fills in for dead parents and
friends long lost,
lost forever.

It fits in exactly
where the pursuit of happiness
and renunciation, failed.

An old wise man
whose presence
takes you on a high
can be your guru –
living, demanding, superior being.

But here, is this durban
who opens all doors
for a little bakshish,
takes you to gatherings
where everyone is just another you.

And the fleeting resonance in every
mirror
of this hall of mirrors
is your own.

Who needs gurus and godmen
Or gods
when you have schizophrenia,
a flask of rum
a table to rest these on.

A laugh marks the beginning to end
of sanity; insanity,
comes distilled,
trapped in a bottle
you can fill a few flasks with.

The only power that stands
in the way of my being a complete atheist.

August 12, 2008

6 comments:

Amit said...

super
super
super
super
super.

Love
Amit Singh

my poetry journal said...

:) i see you are becoming a regular here docta singh.

my poetry journal said...
This comment has been removed by the author.
Amit Singh said...

i want you to be a regular here too, my friend.

Love
love
love
love
love.

Akhil Katyal said...

"Rumi, the great Sufi,
is in a way, three-fourths Rum
and a quarter I."

I could stare at these lines forever! a childish trick, a word game is never away from moments that can shift the grounds below your feet. and yes, sacredness and its jazz will always be around for poets; not the sacredness of stupid gods but that of intoxication, which can be much the same!

pallavi.jayakar said...

Just loved this poem.simply brilliant.The opening was a knocker!!