Rhymes: For a few dimes more...

On the Uncommon Wealth Games:
What happened: I posted a BBC link containing embarrassing photos of the games village. Sudhang posted that conditions have improved since then, that inspite of mismanagement and corruption Delhi has drastically improved after many years. What might have been a debate got heated, and Sudhang said that he didn't want to continue the argument anymore. What follows is the poetic conclusion.

Sudhang:
I bade thee adieu.
And though you're mistaken
I remain unshaken;
I shan't start the conversation anew.
 

Me:
Since you insist so much,
I'll admit it as such.
Whatever I say
Doesn't change shit.
Why not call it a day,
And from this argument quit?

Why annoy a friend,
As I chase till the end
What has already been said?!
(Besides) For this, I'm not even paid.

You might be true.
And then I might rue
That I lost a good pal.
Can we meet up when you next come to Cal?

(The last line is, of course, my signature way of ending a rhyme on an irrelevant note.)

Double class: viewed through a looking glass
What happened: I was sitting in a double-period, a continuous drawl that went on for two hours. The experience of it.

Juggling words in weariness,
Trying to escape the dreariness
Of listening to a boorish teacher.
Grown tired of this babbling creature.
Time moves in a slow, languid manner,
Which, needless to say, throws a spanner
To my plans of having a good day,
And, while the sun shines, make hay.
All of that, I think, now goes haywire
As this man tries his best to tire
Each and everyone of us out.
Well, that's what this poem is about!

Among the various replies accumulated in the Facebook note, K-da was the only one pitching in with rhyme.

K-da:
The world of verse,
Whether pompous or terse,
Would be my forte.
'Twas a settlement reached out of court!

A small patch of grass,
Where I’ll lamely graze like the lethargic ass,
No shepherd to lord over me.
A quiet day after a full tummy!

Ambling across the lakes and leas,
A smug smile to wear,
Churning the rhymes in perfect bliss,
Ouch! the smile droops to a fear!

Who’s he? ah! no one, a small boy,
Want to learn something, ahoy!
Pithy verses, laced with wit.
Come-on, I’ll stand that little bit!

But oh! The boy or an angel coming to age,
With words and rhythm, rivaling the sage,
The good old days of the ruminant, gone!
Now it specializes in “chorbito chorbon”!

The last two words in Bengali roughly translate to "chewing what has been chewed" (I'm ignoring the implication that I might be a cow). Now I had to reply in verse, of course. Otherwise the whole fun would've gone. Came up with two.

Me:
In matters of wordplay and wit,
There are few who can quite hit
The levels of mastery you show.
That's something all of us know!

With words, you have a flair
(That) I'd be too happy to share.
But, of course, that's a wild dream!
Poetry comes slow, as ream upon ream
Of virtual paper is wasted.
And then some sort of success tasted.

So cheer up, and have a beer.
You're still the pioneer!
(Oh, assuming you like to drink!
If not, take it with a wink.)

Your verses still shine,
They're better than mine.
And if one is just short of divine,
Add a little polish and refine.
I'm sure that'll make it fine.
Oh damn, I can't write one more rhyming line!

Me, again:
An angel? Oh dear!
With every praise you gear
Towards hyperbole.
My insignificant role
Of a humourous prole
You send down the greatness-hole!

I much prefer to be the boy,
Who with his humour-sarcasm alloy,
Tears things down to bits:
From boring teachers to pop-hermits!
(I mean the celeb Guru of Yoga,
The one with stone-eye and saffron toga.)

Amusement is the only aim
And if, by chance, a little fame
Does stride up to me,
Who'm I to set it free?
And if someone does learn a slice
Wouldn't it be very nice?

But don't mourn the ruminant gone.
From its ashes, a cynic born
Shares his lop-sided worldview.
He sees the world with eyes anew.

To be honest, the ruminant was boring.
As he talked you could hear the snoring
Of those around him.
So he'd turn grim
And morose.
But then, he chose
To abandon prose.
(A chapter-close.)

 

Bogie:

What happened: This was spurred by the verbal portrait of me that Basu-da drew, while in conversation. I started with the intention of exaggerating his words. But in place of the archetypal hardboiled cynic, I ended up with the man I was modelling the poem on.
 

On his forehead, a deep frown.
A compulsive loner in tinseltown.
His utterances bitter, sardonic,
While he gulps down a gin and tonic.
Cool, steely, suave and smart,
Who's he but Humphrey Bogart?

First Crush:
Somebody wrote, "Experiencing my first crush".
Dude, I just hope you're not having your first brush
With compressive load!

#Joking civil-engg. mode

Random wisecrack on seeing someone's facebook status. Contains mild geek-humour, and complete irreverence for emotions. Be warned! Also, hashtags are wonderful, aren't they?

P.S.: Second roundup of facebook verses. Part 1 here.

A quick roundup

If you are on my Facebook friend-list and log in periodically, you might have seen some of my attempts at lighthearted, humorous poetry. Most of these are hastily typed down in a minute or two, and therefore exhibit awkward structure and meter.

Still, I'm fond of them. Lightheartedness is a good excuse for laziness - I can get away with the excuse of parodying wannabe poets.

Penny-a-word poets:

Sudipto Basu wants to create rhythm but rhyme,

but can't find a word more fitting than slime.

Boy, these rhymes for a dime 

are just not worth his time.

On falling down from a bicycle:

Sudipto Basu is having much fun.
As much as can be done
with a painful hurt arm;
A silly book's done the harm!

Footnote - a book in a big bag hanging from the handle got stuck in the wheel. Hence, a bad fall.

To this, K-da added:

And with raging fever
It’s more than a shiver
that keeps you off
from FB and all the cine blokes you dare to scoff!

But which is the buck
You’d like to pass;
That created this fuss,
the book, tyre, muck
or a little less than luck ?

So get better soon.
You can’t set for a greater boon.
A half-way spoonerism this, it’s then a spoon!
For want of an apt ender,
I’ll rather take this bender
And settle for my LB’s lampoon!

Footnote - LB is for little brother, which is how K-da often calls me. The fall was soon accompanied by high fever.


On writing infrequently:

Sudipto Basu needs to write more often,
His writing skills mustn't soften.

Sayantani added:

Love your couplets,

Nice mind-outlets.

To which I rejoined:

Writing a couplet ain't hard.

For an easy going two-line bard.

Self-referential fun:

The other day I wrote
something of eminent note:
"Writing couplets ain't hard
for an easy-going two-line bard."
A couple more I want to fix,
In place of four, now I have six.
Two lines more I want to frame.
But can't, oh what a shame!

The Basics of a Trivial Art:

A writer of lighthearted verse
Must make his lines terse.

Succumb to the prolix curse
and your rhymes become worse.

Hold your tongue tight, and your words tighter.
That adds to the humour, makes the verse lighter.

(Lines three and four contributed by Sudhang Shankar. The in-joke is that I've often been susceptible to the prolix curse. Sudhang's couplet might also be a word of warning to me.)

Bad mess food:

"How does it feel?, how does it feel?"
Well how should I feel without a meal!
The mess serves gooey broth.
Good reason for fume and froth.

The first line is of course lifted from a famous Dylan song. This is one of my laziest rhymes, which prompted Karn Kaul to announce that I'm going mad.


The Humourless:

A man who's serious and sombre
is almost as deadly as a mad bomber.
The self-serious man refuses to understand humour,
His earnest unfunny-ness keeps growing like a tumour.
In case you're wondering, this is exaggerated verse.
Don't sulk so much, it could have been worse.

Inspired by a post on Jabberwock's blog which goes by the same name. Funny thing he responded to this facebook status! Reason for writing: professors earnestly asking students to make movies with social relevance at a screening of short-films. This, when some of the films being chided were excellent parody/mockumentary stuff. And a "socially-relevant" film scripted by one of the professors in question prone to turgid seriousness. As you can see, I also did a good job of plagiarising two rhyming words from 'The Basics of a Trivial Art'.

The last one in this post is a playoff started due to a friend who called K-da "a great cine buff". Anyway, here goes Film Conversations.

Beginning with K-da:

"A great cine buff?!"
If that isn't a bluff,
I'd have to leave the place in a huff!
Lest Mr Sudipto Basu chortles
With a violent sneeze and a non-phlegmatic cough!

To which I said:

It isn't very tough
to be recognised as a cine buff.
Some acquaintance
with films of great importance
should be enough
to make you a cine buff.

And K-da replied:

Now, it's a piquant call,
when K-da's having a pit-less fall,
to try and give him a prop,
and in the process go for a crop,
of all those virtues that a buff so deserves,
Insight, vision and the mental reserves,
And, Mr Basu at this age,
Matches a feat that envies the sage,
And this is the fact without any toss
needs to be driven sure across,
to all those friends, don't be cross!

My sagacious rejoinder:

A film buff requires vision and insight
to be able to look into the plight
of fellow men and women.
All that is accepted, but then
(here to your assumption i'll say no
a true cineaste mustn't be so)
mental reserves are a dent
to a film buff's temperament.

To those confounded with this playful reverence, K-da has unusually high opinions of people he likes. Don't be fooled!

Some explanation owed for the "mental reserves" bit. A friend of K-da opined that once someone starts appreciating the masters of world cinema, locally acclaimed film-makers start looking pale in comparison. So much so that one doesn't even want to watch Indian films anymore. (Personal opinion: untrue.)

P.S. and N.B:
1.) A few of the verses begin awkwardly with Sudipto Basu because facebook statuses, as you may know, begin with the poster's name.
2.) Some lines have been modified here and there. Still there is minimum editorial interference.
3.) Prosaic explanations ironically required.
4.) Due acknowledgement to all the greats: Ogden Nash, Edward Lear, Piet Hein, Carroll and Sukumar Ray.

Down the memory hole...

I look on a little aghast
As I erase a bit of my past.
The tyranny of small minds,
In its devious way grinds
The sweetness of yesteryears.
Blood ties confirm fears
Of being misunderstood.
On this, let's not brood
Anymore. Laugh a little
At the pettiness of moronic piffle.

Growing up, part 2

Maa and I went to visit one of our former neighbours this weekend. They shifted to a house nearby just a couple of years ago. Yet the little girl who had lived next door to me for ten years suddenly seemed to have become mature beyond recognition.

Dida, this girl's grandma, was quite fit when I last saw her. She'd step out of the apartment daily to pick flowers for her puja, stop and chat for a while with people she knew. This time she could barely recognise me (of course, that I had grown a thick beard and moustache played some role). There was gloom on her face as she slowly dipped a marie biscuit in a glass of tea. Gloom as she gently shook her head in reply to maa's enquiry upon her health. And all the while I stood stiffly; not knowing what to do, what to say or how to react. There is something soul-sapping about physical degradation in old age. A youngster like me who is in the stage of life where he hopes and has the will to fight cannot really understand or appreciate what it means to be on the downspiral of hopelessness.

I was saved from the embarrassing situation of being expected to act like an adult and not being able to stand up to it. Kaku, the girl's father, called me away from dida's room for a chat. I was relieved and ashamed. Sometimes I wish I were a child. I could stand there without understanding the gravity of the situation and nobody would expect anything.

Growing up

The other day my little niece wanted to go out walking in the streets alone. Now naturally she was forbidden, though she later had me for company. She looked up at me and said, "when will I grow up? I want to do things by myself." I smiled. I used to ask that question often.

Yesterday I'd been to a wedding reception. People talked and laughed, there was forced conversation and hollow guffawing. And I had to sit through all of that with a cheerful facade - often answering needless questions thrown to me. Children were running about, some gorging on the free cold-drinks and ice-creams on offer. A boy of about five walked up to a circle of old acquaintances, who were all chatting, singled out a woman and pulled at her sari. "Maa, I'm getting bored. When will you take me home?" I smiled. I used to ask that question often.

Love?

Two bits of news this week: 1 and 2.

A year back, my reaction would be of mixed surprise and sadness. Now, I am a little amused: to think that I love someone too!