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Best Poems From
RANI TURTON
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121.
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Mysteries
There is a mystery in living
When, how, for how long and why
No need to use complicated rhetorical arguments
The devil's advocate I can play indeed
But the end is always the same
Its almost as if our lifespans are a timed game.
We can hop from land to land
For reasons only we can understand
We can lament and weep
Until at the end we finally sleep
To sleep perchance to dream
As a great poet once wrote
In lifespans, life's cycles, in moments of oblivion
I even forgot all that I wrote
The great mystery was not action or living
The great question was extinction and annihilation.
To come back to the essential
I, Me and Myself
My small insignificant life
Could I even presume to be remembered
After the third generation, the fourth maybe?
And what was it's essentiality?
Wicks flame, flicker and glow
That is finally the way I will go.
Rani Turton
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122.
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Now I Lay Myself But Not To Sleep
Now I lay myself but not to sleep;
That is natural albeit functional
My laying myself down is nothing:
An action that is situational.
Now I lay myself down to dream
Yes, dreams in which I often did
The extraordinary, unfettered by the ordinary
Dreaming, yes, when dreaming is lucid.
There are instants both dark and gay
Which can dull life's bright glitter;
Now I lay myself down but not to sleep:
From instant to instant will my soul err.
Copyright: Rani Turton
Rani Turton
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123.
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Obama Has A Strange Name They Say
Obama has a strange name they say
But then so do I
Strange for here but not for there
Stranger and stranger as the world becomes
Freer and freer, no frontiers
Depending for whom
Depending for where.
Travellers we are all: nomads in this world
That keeps contracting and still
Strangers remain strangers and worse
Foreignors remain strangers on
Shores that remain devoid of warmth.
What is foreign? Coming from which shores
And arriving where? Are foreignors strange because
They have strange names
Or they act strange? A strange kind of modernity dictates
That everyone looks and speaks alike
Devoid of accent, devoid of strange words
That's how it is and now Obama with his strange name
And mine with mine: we have associations to the past
To some far-off land; stranger I am still
My hair, like Obama's, says where I come from.
My eyes, like Obama's, say where I come from.
My skin, like Obama's speaks louder than words.
I am the sum of all that came before.
My strangeness is just that:
I brought a slice of the world with me when I came.
Copyright: Rani Turton
Rani Turton
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124.
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Ode to Vijay Vine
Vijay Vine, not Vijay Whine,
Was the life and soul of every do
While others whined, Vijay wined and dined
And to his flagon was true.
And wined again, until, until the wine
Almost became sublime; he knew
The big names in the who's who;
He had married into Delhi's cream
His life was a poor man's dream.
He could disclaim and proclaim
To almost universal acclaim.
He was really fine:
Vijay Vine and not Vijay Whine.
Then came one day as singing
Vijay jumped into his car and went winging
The Defence Colony flyover
Remembers till today
On a day that was particularly grey
That Vijay's money could not buy a makeover;
Vijay's car took off like a plane
Now, that really is a shame.
Vijay Vine, never Vijay Whine
Smiling, singing Vijay Vine.
Copyright: Rani Turton
Rani Turton
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