Innocent Anarchist by Ashok aatreya (e book reader txt) 📕
Excerpt from the book:
A poem of Protest
Ashok Aatreya’s “Innocent Anarchist”, is a poem of ‘protest from all fronts, revivifying the vedic motifs, detracting Pauranic Akhyans, questioning the judgment of the Dharmashtras and finally the long prevailing chaturyoga’s domination of the imperialistic rule of exploitation of the large section of people and suppression of the uprising mass protest.
Very much belonging to the traditional super-fluent sect of Tantra family Ashok remained a protester since birth. He has moved from one city to another like a nomad never settling anywhere throughout his career and did not cherish any tradition family value & virtue.
“From the day the golden egg came into existence to this day I have seen the wheel moving singing a song Charaiveti-Charaiveti..../for the edification of the masses in that relentless ethical war in meaningless struggle/as the duty bound postman delivers letters/as wounded soldier embraces the motherland when falls/… ‘‘Sorry- I was not a crusader...”.
Ashok is a maverick traveler hoping of a feel good factor but the situation is tragic-‘‘From the point of no return/this is the only spirited moment of a maverick traveler/When the entire crowd is busy with politicians and scrubbers of Democracy/when the scriptures and constitution are used as toilet papers/…..the feel good factor becomes a pittance of a poor man.’’….A proxy of the people/ even a traitorous activity/The vanguard losing faith of people/
The poet in Ashok’s long poems intimately feels this transformation in real sense as he writes-‘‘The brass colored beauty nothing to cover on bare bosoms / But a single flower of Mahua pinned/…They come with tags of Ernesto Che and Mao on their hearts”….and so on so forth, ultimately facing the stalk reality when he concludes his poem-‘‘Oh my mother, my son my daughter my wife my comrade/ Why you all were not aware of all this/Still singing songs in admiration/Perhaps you still waiting for the judgment day/Still believing in the stories of fish incarnation/Still assured that lord Shiva would appear again to kill Andhak to bring peace on earth/The Ganges would free sons of Sagar from the curse/’’.
Ashok Aatreya’s “Innocent Anarchist”, is a poem of ‘protest from all fronts, revivifying the vedic motifs, detracting Pauranic Akhyans, questioning the judgment of the Dharmashtras and finally the long prevailing chaturyoga’s domination of the imperialistic rule of exploitation of the large section of people and suppression of the uprising mass protest.
Very much belonging to the traditional super-fluent sect of Tantra family Ashok remained a protester since birth. He has moved from one city to another like a nomad never settling anywhere throughout his career and did not cherish any tradition family value & virtue.
“From the day the golden egg came into existence to this day I have seen the wheel moving singing a song Charaiveti-Charaiveti..../for the edification of the masses in that relentless ethical war in meaningless struggle/as the duty bound postman delivers letters/as wounded soldier embraces the motherland when falls/… ‘‘Sorry- I was not a crusader...”.
Ashok is a maverick traveler hoping of a feel good factor but the situation is tragic-‘‘From the point of no return/this is the only spirited moment of a maverick traveler/When the entire crowd is busy with politicians and scrubbers of Democracy/when the scriptures and constitution are used as toilet papers/…..the feel good factor becomes a pittance of a poor man.’’….A proxy of the people/ even a traitorous activity/The vanguard losing faith of people/
The poet in Ashok’s long poems intimately feels this transformation in real sense as he writes-‘‘The brass colored beauty nothing to cover on bare bosoms / But a single flower of Mahua pinned/…They come with tags of Ernesto Che and Mao on their hearts”….and so on so forth, ultimately facing the stalk reality when he concludes his poem-‘‘Oh my mother, my son my daughter my wife my comrade/ Why you all were not aware of all this/Still singing songs in admiration/Perhaps you still waiting for the judgment day/Still believing in the stories of fish incarnation/Still assured that lord Shiva would appear again to kill Andhak to bring peace on earth/The Ganges would free sons of Sagar from the curse/’’.
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with politicians and scrubbers of democracy
When the scriptures and constitution are being used as toilet papers
When the masses have taken in hands guns in place of scythes
When the pen is dry or used as vibrator to arouse market-whores
When the clerics merchandising sex and power in philandering posture of religion
The saturation point the indicator the call for those has come
Who can take this journey and the challenge thrown to them
In a saunter way…striking again and again
Different heights and valleys
Like a monk revamping the old monastery
Waiting for ultimate laurels
Whispering the lines of Frost-
‘The woods are lovely, dark and deep
But I have promises to keep
And miles to go before I sleep
And miles to go before I sleep.’
And like that of Monk’s mind
Everything seemed hopeful
Everything in good shape
Everybody seemed relieved
But this all feel-good factor
Can come to a tragic end
Can become a pittance of a poor man
A proxy of people
Even a traitorous activity
The vanguard losing faith of people
All ideals becoming vaporous
And the hero proves a Vampire bat
It is all mournful
Ordure of our expectations
Up-setting all
Such Monks often come and go
To reverse the process and progress
In the name of leaders and statesmen
In the name of freedom fighters
Unsung heroes
Product of podiums or procession or prison
Poetry or Art
There are blind followers deaf and dumb crowd
Dirty politics absorb all and after use they are thrown in dust-bin
That is nothing but the game of exorcism loved and played by power brokers
And the victims live it irresolutely
They are thrown in the streets as stray dogs or as used expiry date drugs
Such rag-tag band of party rebels or misfits or unfortunate ‘people’
Become a force of incivility and flushed through the gutters of
Floundering democracy in most heinous manner
Remember Elliot telling us-‘this is the way the world ends…
This is the way the world ends
Not by bang but by whimper…Whose whisper is all that
What makes you inhuman?
How suddenly some poltergeist becomes active in you
Why can’t you hear the inward inexorable words?
The solemn pronouncement of self realization
Being freed in the infinite
That your soul now seeking new clothes
Think think and think …
Think again
The time is melting in Salvador Dali’s Paintings.
It’s neither in line nor in circular motion
Then whose time is this?
It’s yours…it’s mine…it’s everybody’s time
Melting like wax melting like life
How cruel a spring may be?
The discovery of the Pendulum
The electric clocks
The atomic clocks
Reckoning time in tiny fraction of seconds
Yet the time remains away from the reach of people
They remain backward hungry sick lost in depression
A plunderer still following the seasonal migrations of the reindeer
The tribes uproot themselves
In search of rich grasslands
Never guided by clock
But by life’s remarkable rhythms
The poor-fellows left out of extinction
When blue-eyed grass blooms
There is no regulation still
Except the clocking of nerve impulse
Of uncountable birds animals men-women
For unfathomable creatures of sea
Accept call of the Mother Nature
Oh Albert Einstein, are you still stretching and shrinking time
A paradox for everyone
When the life can roll forward and backward
Anytime like a film in minute camera or a movie
When the brown haired damsel
Comes out of the city beauty parlor
When foliage and flowers express in ingenious and decorative way
The meaning of time
When great poet Kalidas calculates people’s time in love and romance
Clouds like messengers telling tales of beloved lyrical hearts
Then think about fire
The same fire
The ever first stolen by Sisyphus from heaven for which he was cursed
Un-tiring labor toiled on him
Absurd punishment imposed
With a heavy rock on his shoulders
Ascending and descending the hill very high day and night
For his act which saved humanity
Think about fire in horse representing the creator of cosmos
Fire in fish saving entire stock of culture in a pot
Fire in stone saving civilizations till this day
Fire in cow the sacred goddess not an animal
The world around us is made up of Fire and Som the divine drink ‘wouldst thou had’
The world that weaving words through the fire in poets pen
For whom Tagore writes-
‘My poet, is it thy delight to see thy creation through my eyes and to stand
At the portals of my ears
Silently to listen to thine own eternal- harmony’
And most unfortunately that very fire again and again lost
From the singing and dancing shoulders of hills
Answered by the flutes
In the dark summer nights of devils world
When lives become uncomfortable and at high stake
When that divine light become pale
When the lord of the Universe known as ‘Virat purush’
Lord of legends with
Hundred heads hundred eyes hundred arms
Adores this Universe by his grand posture of only ten fingers
Leaves the place
The hills Madia Kingdom also comes to a halt suddenly
The fire clothed virgin earth doesn’t weds the Yogi
Who creates and destroys this wonderful cosmos
It’s a moon-less mid- summer night of sloppy hills and sleepy moot populace
The oldest civilization on earth with ‘woeful agony forced me also to begin the tale’
Remembering Coleridge at this juncture I politely quote:
Since then, at an uncertain hour,
That agony returns: And till my ghastly tale is told,
This heart within me burns.’
Thank you my favorite poet
Thank you for telling the story which is Universal
I pray, for I can not but pray
As prayers sustain me
Come to my rescue O great Lord of the Universe
Let the gates of my inner temple open
Let the fire glitter in the hearts of the same people
Let the jungle wake from the dreadful sleep
Let there be light of thousands of Masaals (Torch)
Let there be tides of peacocks dancing in unison
Let’s see the come back of thousands legs ups and down in rhythm
With the beats of Drums
Let their decorated shoulder horse jump with jubilant orientation
Let the oval shaped ‘Parang’ drums in the vest- line
Dance in tune with the ‘Tirooth’.
Answered by the hills…tadak…tadak
Where all that gone with the venomous air?
The music of Bamboo like thunder bolt
And at the same time someone very close
Whispering your ear-
You also buy a drum and learn how to love.
Love in ‘Ghotul’
That paradise of lovers looking like wild Bison shaped attic
And the mystic attached to that mating point
Is again its roistering but fascinating environment
Created by imaginative presence of reptiles like snakes and alligators
Forming part of its architectural grandeur
Feathers of gorgeous bird Peacock associated with lord Krishna make the roof top
Beauty with utility is the key word of their world
And this all inviting
In the night house made of broad bones of fishes
The entrance decorated with ‘siliyari’ flowers
The floor layered by ‘urad’ pulse
‘Enjoy loving your spouse on the back of crocodile’
How exciting would it all be?
Under the shadows of tall ‘Saal ‘trees
This all is unseen and a fantasy
Angdev inviting you again in the democratic world of love
Intoxicating ‘Mahuwa’ inviting you
Select your life partner your love bird
And go deep into the forest
After formal permission from ‘Belasa’ and ‘Sirdar’
Become’ Chelic’ and take your ‘Motiyari’ with you.
After the scorching heat the sun is setting
They all start …re…re…loyo…re…re…la…re…re…re…la
Dance is their life
The entire hill dance
Young lovers offer tobacco to each other
Boys give combs as special gifts to their beloved
And again fire plays major role in joining them
In the Ghotul courtyard they enjoy ‘Chaungi’.
The brass colored beauty nothing to cover on bare bosom
But a single flower of Mahuva pinned
Symbol of love and protection
By her bosom friend some time steal the scene
Where you lost where my dear Aboojhamaad…?
I am not a witness of the torture you have lived loathsomely
I am not a witness of the deep wounds of your centuries sufferings
And at the same time your greatness fascinates me as you live
In the profundity in your miseries
From stone - age to the age of Republic
You have lived and let live others hidden in the deep Sal -Saj and Palas forests
Culturally alive behind Vindhya mountains
I could only see you from distance alone in coiled existence
Crying helplessly and not answered by anybody
Sometime in the grave till my neck in the darkness
As light refused to reach you ever from have-not heaven
I was ruined and silent
Feeling for the moment myself Aboojhamaad
Part of Narayanpur.
I being the ‘Vahi of Angadev’
Would make my house outside the forest
Would try to understand myself in terms of their life
Would roam in hot air like a Good Samaritan
With body scratched I would cry
An angry- guerrilla jumping out of my own eyes
Part of the changing time
But every time my effort of promulgation would turn into a fiasco
My eyes my mind my ears my skin my entire body would scream
My dreams burnt death stood above life no one was to mourn
Leaving behind my caravan of hopes again and again all alone
Unfortunately ‘they’ lulled in sleep left starved people pale and worried
In spite of ‘horrid warnings gaped wide’.
And then not suddenly but slowly the world changed
‘‘They’ come with tags of Ernesto che and Mao on their hearts
Rifles on their shoulders declaring guerilla war
From tooth to nail in arms men and women
Targeting Raids and Rescue Missions Police and Peoples Enemies
A new killer ‘daring –do’ instinct replaced hunger deprivation and misery
Still everyone who had taken arm was not a communist
But killing the innocent brothers and sisters in train and buses
Exploding Rail-lines and bridges burning of farmer’s corn fields
Merciless killing robbery and rapes
Was an attempt of coward people not an act of bravery?
Not in culture of the age old free republic
And still unfortunate is the new line of reaction
Plans of so called responsible order
Combing operations thunderbolt search and cordon
The new language of new Millennium
Being spoken and understood in the porous red sand of ‘Iravati’ today
Unfortunate is the forgotten world of seven ascetic ladies
The swings of snakes ‘Lingdev’ becoming
Grandiloquent thought and fantasy
You can trace still Maria and Muria’s in Republic Day Parade in New Delhi
With Bison heads and colored pheasants feathers
Beating independence by their singing foot-steps and hollow hearts
But not in their homes
As now the people are in their peremptory exile with their own demy-god
P…a…h…a…n…k…o…l…a…d…e…v..!
This is only one part of the whole derelict India that is Bharat
Their ‘Incredible –India’ product of five-star op-pop silken beds
Eating drinking and believing in marry-go- round couture
Is no match to what they address cattle class.
They are the fortunate children meeting only in climax
In the so called ‘Gramvasini Bharat Mata’ show
With their unfortunate poor brothers or sisters
Or in their blogs or tweeter
Anyway one has to decide on which side of fence you stand
State or people
Have or have-nots
Exploiter or Exploited
Privileged or un-privileged
Militia or Peace Processors
The game is strange
Sometimes terror tops the ‘Agenda’ sometimes ‘Peace’
Then there are derailing strategies involving both sides and people
Tall claims made that ‘’trust deficit’’
When the scriptures and constitution are being used as toilet papers
When the masses have taken in hands guns in place of scythes
When the pen is dry or used as vibrator to arouse market-whores
When the clerics merchandising sex and power in philandering posture of religion
The saturation point the indicator the call for those has come
Who can take this journey and the challenge thrown to them
In a saunter way…striking again and again
Different heights and valleys
Like a monk revamping the old monastery
Waiting for ultimate laurels
Whispering the lines of Frost-
‘The woods are lovely, dark and deep
But I have promises to keep
And miles to go before I sleep
And miles to go before I sleep.’
And like that of Monk’s mind
Everything seemed hopeful
Everything in good shape
Everybody seemed relieved
But this all feel-good factor
Can come to a tragic end
Can become a pittance of a poor man
A proxy of people
Even a traitorous activity
The vanguard losing faith of people
All ideals becoming vaporous
And the hero proves a Vampire bat
It is all mournful
Ordure of our expectations
Up-setting all
Such Monks often come and go
To reverse the process and progress
In the name of leaders and statesmen
In the name of freedom fighters
Unsung heroes
Product of podiums or procession or prison
Poetry or Art
There are blind followers deaf and dumb crowd
Dirty politics absorb all and after use they are thrown in dust-bin
That is nothing but the game of exorcism loved and played by power brokers
And the victims live it irresolutely
They are thrown in the streets as stray dogs or as used expiry date drugs
Such rag-tag band of party rebels or misfits or unfortunate ‘people’
Become a force of incivility and flushed through the gutters of
Floundering democracy in most heinous manner
Remember Elliot telling us-‘this is the way the world ends…
This is the way the world ends
Not by bang but by whimper…Whose whisper is all that
What makes you inhuman?
How suddenly some poltergeist becomes active in you
Why can’t you hear the inward inexorable words?
The solemn pronouncement of self realization
Being freed in the infinite
That your soul now seeking new clothes
Think think and think …
Think again
The time is melting in Salvador Dali’s Paintings.
It’s neither in line nor in circular motion
Then whose time is this?
It’s yours…it’s mine…it’s everybody’s time
Melting like wax melting like life
How cruel a spring may be?
The discovery of the Pendulum
The electric clocks
The atomic clocks
Reckoning time in tiny fraction of seconds
Yet the time remains away from the reach of people
They remain backward hungry sick lost in depression
A plunderer still following the seasonal migrations of the reindeer
The tribes uproot themselves
In search of rich grasslands
Never guided by clock
But by life’s remarkable rhythms
The poor-fellows left out of extinction
When blue-eyed grass blooms
There is no regulation still
Except the clocking of nerve impulse
Of uncountable birds animals men-women
For unfathomable creatures of sea
Accept call of the Mother Nature
Oh Albert Einstein, are you still stretching and shrinking time
A paradox for everyone
When the life can roll forward and backward
Anytime like a film in minute camera or a movie
When the brown haired damsel
Comes out of the city beauty parlor
When foliage and flowers express in ingenious and decorative way
The meaning of time
When great poet Kalidas calculates people’s time in love and romance
Clouds like messengers telling tales of beloved lyrical hearts
Then think about fire
The same fire
The ever first stolen by Sisyphus from heaven for which he was cursed
Un-tiring labor toiled on him
Absurd punishment imposed
With a heavy rock on his shoulders
Ascending and descending the hill very high day and night
For his act which saved humanity
Think about fire in horse representing the creator of cosmos
Fire in fish saving entire stock of culture in a pot
Fire in stone saving civilizations till this day
Fire in cow the sacred goddess not an animal
The world around us is made up of Fire and Som the divine drink ‘wouldst thou had’
The world that weaving words through the fire in poets pen
For whom Tagore writes-
‘My poet, is it thy delight to see thy creation through my eyes and to stand
At the portals of my ears
Silently to listen to thine own eternal- harmony’
And most unfortunately that very fire again and again lost
From the singing and dancing shoulders of hills
Answered by the flutes
In the dark summer nights of devils world
When lives become uncomfortable and at high stake
When that divine light become pale
When the lord of the Universe known as ‘Virat purush’
Lord of legends with
Hundred heads hundred eyes hundred arms
Adores this Universe by his grand posture of only ten fingers
Leaves the place
The hills Madia Kingdom also comes to a halt suddenly
The fire clothed virgin earth doesn’t weds the Yogi
Who creates and destroys this wonderful cosmos
It’s a moon-less mid- summer night of sloppy hills and sleepy moot populace
The oldest civilization on earth with ‘woeful agony forced me also to begin the tale’
Remembering Coleridge at this juncture I politely quote:
Since then, at an uncertain hour,
That agony returns: And till my ghastly tale is told,
This heart within me burns.’
Thank you my favorite poet
Thank you for telling the story which is Universal
I pray, for I can not but pray
As prayers sustain me
Come to my rescue O great Lord of the Universe
Let the gates of my inner temple open
Let the fire glitter in the hearts of the same people
Let the jungle wake from the dreadful sleep
Let there be light of thousands of Masaals (Torch)
Let there be tides of peacocks dancing in unison
Let’s see the come back of thousands legs ups and down in rhythm
With the beats of Drums
Let their decorated shoulder horse jump with jubilant orientation
Let the oval shaped ‘Parang’ drums in the vest- line
Dance in tune with the ‘Tirooth’.
Answered by the hills…tadak…tadak
Where all that gone with the venomous air?
The music of Bamboo like thunder bolt
And at the same time someone very close
Whispering your ear-
You also buy a drum and learn how to love.
Love in ‘Ghotul’
That paradise of lovers looking like wild Bison shaped attic
And the mystic attached to that mating point
Is again its roistering but fascinating environment
Created by imaginative presence of reptiles like snakes and alligators
Forming part of its architectural grandeur
Feathers of gorgeous bird Peacock associated with lord Krishna make the roof top
Beauty with utility is the key word of their world
And this all inviting
In the night house made of broad bones of fishes
The entrance decorated with ‘siliyari’ flowers
The floor layered by ‘urad’ pulse
‘Enjoy loving your spouse on the back of crocodile’
How exciting would it all be?
Under the shadows of tall ‘Saal ‘trees
This all is unseen and a fantasy
Angdev inviting you again in the democratic world of love
Intoxicating ‘Mahuwa’ inviting you
Select your life partner your love bird
And go deep into the forest
After formal permission from ‘Belasa’ and ‘Sirdar’
Become’ Chelic’ and take your ‘Motiyari’ with you.
After the scorching heat the sun is setting
They all start …re…re…loyo…re…re…la…re…re…re…la
Dance is their life
The entire hill dance
Young lovers offer tobacco to each other
Boys give combs as special gifts to their beloved
And again fire plays major role in joining them
In the Ghotul courtyard they enjoy ‘Chaungi’.
The brass colored beauty nothing to cover on bare bosom
But a single flower of Mahuva pinned
Symbol of love and protection
By her bosom friend some time steal the scene
Where you lost where my dear Aboojhamaad…?
I am not a witness of the torture you have lived loathsomely
I am not a witness of the deep wounds of your centuries sufferings
And at the same time your greatness fascinates me as you live
In the profundity in your miseries
From stone - age to the age of Republic
You have lived and let live others hidden in the deep Sal -Saj and Palas forests
Culturally alive behind Vindhya mountains
I could only see you from distance alone in coiled existence
Crying helplessly and not answered by anybody
Sometime in the grave till my neck in the darkness
As light refused to reach you ever from have-not heaven
I was ruined and silent
Feeling for the moment myself Aboojhamaad
Part of Narayanpur.
I being the ‘Vahi of Angadev’
Would make my house outside the forest
Would try to understand myself in terms of their life
Would roam in hot air like a Good Samaritan
With body scratched I would cry
An angry- guerrilla jumping out of my own eyes
Part of the changing time
But every time my effort of promulgation would turn into a fiasco
My eyes my mind my ears my skin my entire body would scream
My dreams burnt death stood above life no one was to mourn
Leaving behind my caravan of hopes again and again all alone
Unfortunately ‘they’ lulled in sleep left starved people pale and worried
In spite of ‘horrid warnings gaped wide’.
And then not suddenly but slowly the world changed
‘‘They’ come with tags of Ernesto che and Mao on their hearts
Rifles on their shoulders declaring guerilla war
From tooth to nail in arms men and women
Targeting Raids and Rescue Missions Police and Peoples Enemies
A new killer ‘daring –do’ instinct replaced hunger deprivation and misery
Still everyone who had taken arm was not a communist
But killing the innocent brothers and sisters in train and buses
Exploding Rail-lines and bridges burning of farmer’s corn fields
Merciless killing robbery and rapes
Was an attempt of coward people not an act of bravery?
Not in culture of the age old free republic
And still unfortunate is the new line of reaction
Plans of so called responsible order
Combing operations thunderbolt search and cordon
The new language of new Millennium
Being spoken and understood in the porous red sand of ‘Iravati’ today
Unfortunate is the forgotten world of seven ascetic ladies
The swings of snakes ‘Lingdev’ becoming
Grandiloquent thought and fantasy
You can trace still Maria and Muria’s in Republic Day Parade in New Delhi
With Bison heads and colored pheasants feathers
Beating independence by their singing foot-steps and hollow hearts
But not in their homes
As now the people are in their peremptory exile with their own demy-god
P…a…h…a…n…k…o…l…a…d…e…v..!
This is only one part of the whole derelict India that is Bharat
Their ‘Incredible –India’ product of five-star op-pop silken beds
Eating drinking and believing in marry-go- round couture
Is no match to what they address cattle class.
They are the fortunate children meeting only in climax
In the so called ‘Gramvasini Bharat Mata’ show
With their unfortunate poor brothers or sisters
Or in their blogs or tweeter
Anyway one has to decide on which side of fence you stand
State or people
Have or have-nots
Exploiter or Exploited
Privileged or un-privileged
Militia or Peace Processors
The game is strange
Sometimes terror tops the ‘Agenda’ sometimes ‘Peace’
Then there are derailing strategies involving both sides and people
Tall claims made that ‘’trust deficit’’
Free e-book: «Innocent Anarchist by Ashok aatreya (e book reader txt) 📕» - read online now on website american library books (americanlibrarybooks.com)
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