Ars Poetica
(Kenyatta Rogers)

Poems are bullshit unless they are broken
like a horse, like a dog kicked in the ribs,
Like your favorite toy that’s missing an arm.

Love can make you feel used.
I want the poem that limps back to me.
Poems should hurt like love,
like ice water on your teeth
like a massage to smooth out a cramped muscle.

Give me the poem that’s like leather.
Give me the poem that smells like gasoline.
I want a poem that is a warning,
a poem that makes me check to see
if I left the shotgun by the door,
a poem that’s a runny nose, a sneeze, a poem
that’s the moment the sky turns green.

झटक कर ज़ुल्फ जब तुम तौलिए से बारिशे आज़ाद करती हो, अच्छा लगता है
हिला कर होंठ जब भी हौले हौले गुफ्तगू को साज़ करती हो, अच्छा लगता है

अलग एहसास होता है, तुम्हारे पास होने का
सरकती सरसराहट की, नदी में रेशमी लम्हे भिगोने का
ओ हो हो ज़रा सा मोड़ कर गर्दन जब अपनी ही अदा पे नाज़ करती हो, अच्छा लगता है

वो तेरे ध्यान की खुश्बू मैं सर तक ओढ़ लेता हूँ
भटकती साँस को तेरी गली में गुनगुनाने छोड़ देता हूँ
तुम अपनी खिड़कियों को खोल कर जब भी नये आगाज़ करती हो, अच्छा लगता है

The Wisdom of Silenus

Near the beginning of The Birth of Tragedy, Nietzsche tells the ancient story of King Midas hunting in the forest for the wise Silenus, the companion of Dionysus. At last, after many years, the King manages to capture him and asks what is the best and most desirable thing for man.

Silenus maintains a surly silence until, goaded by the King, he bursts out with a contemptuous laugh and says, “Oh, wretched ephemeral race … why do you compel me to tell you what it would be most expedient for you not to hear? What is best of all is utterly beyond your reach: not to be born, not to be, to be nothing. But the second best for you is—to die soon.”

.

It will take time, I know; but teach him, if you can, that a dollar earned is far more valuable than five found.

Teach him to learn to lose and also to enjoy winning.

Steer him away from envy, if you can.

Teach him the secret of quite laughter. Let him learn early that the bullies are the easiest to tick.

Teach him, if you can, the wonder of books... but also give him quiet time to ponder over the eternal mystery of birds in the sky, bees in the sun, and flowers on a green hill.

In school teach him it is far more honorable to fail than to cheat.

Teach him to have faith in his own ideas, even if every one tells him they are wrong.

Teach him to be gentle with gentle people and tough with the tough.

Try to give my son the strength not to follow the crowd when every one is getting on the bandwagon.

Teach him to listen to all men but teach him also to filter all he hears on a screen of truth and take only the good that comes through.

Teach him, if you can, how to laugh when he is sad. Teach him there is no shame in tears. Teach him to scoff at cynics and to beware of too much sweetness.

Teach him to sell his brawn and brain to the highest bidders; but never to put a price tag on his heart and soul.

Teach him to close his ears to a howling mob… and to stand and fight if he thinks he’s right.

Treat him gently; but do not cuddle him because only the test of fire makes fine steel.

Let him have the courage to be impatient, let him have the patience to be brave. Teach him always to have sublime faith in himself because then he will always have sublime faith in mankind.

This is a big order; but see what you can do. He is such a fine little fellow, my son.

(Abraham Lincoln’s letter to his son’s Head Master)

"I want To do with you what spring does with the cherry trees." - Pablo Neruda, Twenty love poems and a song of despair

My whole life has been spent walking by the side of a bottomless chasm, jumping from stone to stone. Sometimes I try to leave my narrow path and join the swirling mainstream of life, but I always find myself drawn inexorably back towards the chasm's edge, and there I shall walk until the day I finally fall into the abyss.

-Edvard Munch, "Meloncholy" 1881

The-Philosophy-of-the-Bomb-Bhagat-Singh.pdf

We ask not for mercy and we give no quarter.
Ours is a war to the end – to Victory or Death.

(Bhagwati Charan Vohra)