कचहरी न जाना

भले डांट घर में तू बीबी की खाना

भले जैसे -तैसे गिरस्ती चलाना
भले जा के जंगल में धूनी रमाना
मगर मेरे बेटे कचहरी न जाना
कचहरी न जाना
कचहरी न जाना

कचहरी हमारी तुम्हारी नहीं है
कहीं से कोई रिश्तेदारी नहीं है
अहलमद से भी कोरी यारी नहीं है
तिवारी था पहले तिवारी नहीं है

कचहरी की महिमा निराली है बेटे
कचहरी वकीलों की थाली है बेटे
पुलिस के लिए छोटी साली है बेटे
यहाँ पैरवी अब दलाली है बेटे

कचहरी ही गुंडों की खेती है बेटे
यही जिन्दगी उनको देती है बेटे
खुले आम कातिल यहाँ घूमते हैं
सिपाही दरोगा चरण चुमतें है

कचहरी में सच की बड़ी दुर्दशा है
भला आदमी किस तरह से फंसा है
यहाँ झूठ की ही कमाई है बेटे
यहाँ झूठ का रेट हाई है बेटे

कचहरी का मारा कचहरी में भागे
कचहरी में सोये कचहरी में जागे
मर जी रहा है गवाही में ऐसे
है तांबे का हंडा सुराही में जैसे

लगाते-बुझाते सिखाते मिलेंगे
हथेली पे सरसों उगाते मिलेंगे
कचहरी तो बेवा का तन देखती है
कहाँ से खुलेगा बटन देखती है

कचहरी शरीफों की खातिर नहीं है
उसी की कसम लो जो हाज़िर नहीं है
है बासी मुहं घर से बुलाती कचहरी
बुलाकर के दिन भर रुलाती कचहरी

मुकदमें की फाइल दबाती कचहरी
हमेशा नया गुल खिलाती कचहरी
कचहरी का पानी जहर से भरा है
कचहरी के नल पर मुवक्किल मरा है

मुकदमा बहुत पैसा खाता है बेटे
मेरे जैसा कैसे निभाता है बेटे
दलालों नें घेरा सुझाया -बुझाया
वकीलों नें हाकिम से सटकर दिखाया

धनुष हो गया हूँ मैं टूटा नहीं हूँ
मैं मुट्ठी हूँ केवल अंगूंठा नहीं हूँ
नहीं कर सका मैं मुकदमें का सौदा
जहाँ था करौदा वहीं है करौदा

कचहरी का पानी कचहरी का दाना
तुम्हे लग न जाये तू बचना बचाना
भले और कोई मुसीबत बुलाना
कचहरी की नौबत कभी घर न लाना

कभी भूल कर भी न आँखें उठाना
न आँखें उठाना न गर्दन फसाना
जहाँ पांडवों को नरक है कचहरी
वहीं कौरवों को सरग है कचहरी ||

--- कैलाश गौतम

पांच पूत भारत माता के

पांच पूत भारत माता के, दुश्मन था खूंखार

गोली खाकर एक मर गया, बाकी रह गए चार |

चार पूत भारत माता के, चारों चतुर प्रवीन,

देश निकाला मिला एक को, बाकी रह गए तीन |

तीन पुत्र भारत माता के, लड़ने लग गए वो,

अलग हो गया इधर एक, अब बाकी रह गए दो |

दो बेटे भारत माता के, छोड़ पुरानी टेक,

चिपक गया है इक गद्दी से, बाकी रह गया एक |

एक पुत्र भारत माता का, कंधे पर है झंडा,

पुलिस पकड़ के जेल ले गई, बाकी रह गया अंडा |

--- बाबा नागार्जुन

Power

The difference between poetry and rhetoric
is being ready to kill
yourself
instead of your children.

I am trapped on a desert of raw gunshot wounds
and a dead child dragging his shattered black
face off the edge of my sleep
blood from his punctured cheeks and shoulders
is the only liquid for miles
and my stomach
churns at the imagined taste while
my mouth splits into dry lips
without loyalty or reason
thirsting for the wetness of his blood
as it sinks into the whiteness
of the desert where I am lost
without imagery or magic
trying to make power out of hatred and destruction
trying to heal my dying son with kisses
only the sun will bleach his bones quicker.

A policeman who shot down a ten year old in Queens
stood over the boy with his cop shoes in childish blood
and a voice said “Die you little motherfucker” and
there are tapes to prove it. At his trial
this policeman said in his own defense
“I didn't notice the size nor nothing else
only the color”. And
there are tapes to prove that, too.

Today that 37 year old white man
with 13 years of police forcing
was set free
by eleven white men who said they were satisfied
justice had been done
and one Black Woman who said
“They convinced me” meaning
they had dragged her 4'10'' black Woman's frame
over the hot coals
of four centuries of white male approval
until she let go
the first real power she ever had
and lined her own womb with cement
to make a graveyard for our children.

I have not been able to touch the destruction
within me.
But unless I learn to use
the difference between poetry and rhetoric
my power too will run corrupt as poisonous mold
or lie limp and useless as an unconnected wire
and one day I will take my teenaged plug
and connect it to the nearest socket
raping an 85 year old white woman
who is somebody's mother
and as I beat her senseless and set a torch to her bed
a greek chorus will be singing in 3/4 time
“Poor thing. She never hurt a soul. What beasts they are.”

---Audre lorde

बात

मुँह से निकली बात
और वह
हवा सरीखी सरपट भागी
जा पहुँची
बाँसों के वन में !

रोकूँ टोकूँ तब तक
वह तो
लपट उठती दावानल-सी
फैल गई-
पूरे कानन में !!

--- प्रेमशंकर रघुवंशी

Home

no one leaves home unless
home is the mouth of a shark
you only run for the border
when you see the whole city running as well

your neighbors running faster than you
breath bloody in their throats
the boy you went to school with
who kissed you dizzy behind the old tin factory
is holding a gun bigger than his body
you only leave home
when home won’t let you stay.

no one leaves home unless home chases you
fire under feet
hot blood in your belly
it’s not something you ever thought of doing
until the blade burnt threats into
your neck
and even then you carried the anthem under
your breath
only tearing up your passport in an airport toilets
sobbing as each mouthful of paper
made it clear that you wouldn’t be going back.

you have to understand,
that no one puts their children in a boat
unless the water is safer than the land
no one burns their palms
under trains
beneath carriages
no one spends days and nights in the stomach of a truck
feeding on newspaper unless the miles travelled
means something more than journey.
no one crawls under fences
no one wants to be beaten
pitied

no one chooses refugee camps
or strip searches where your
body is left aching
or prison,
because prison is safer
than a city of fire
and one prison guard
in the night
is better than a truckload
of men who look like your father
no one could take it
no one could stomach it
no one skin would be tough enough

the
go home blacks
refugees
dirty immigrants
asylum seekers
sucking our country dry
niggers with their hands out
they smell strange
savage
messed up their country and now they want
to mess ours up
how do the words
the dirty looks
roll off your backs
maybe because the blow is softer
than a limb torn off

or the words are more tender
than fourteen men between
your legs
or the insults are easier
to swallow
than rubble
than bone
than your child body
in pieces.
i want to go home,
but home is the mouth of a shark
home is the barrel of the gun
and no one would leave home
unless home chased you to the shore
unless home told you
to quicken your legs
leave your clothes behind
crawl through the desert
wade through the oceans
drown
save
be hunger
beg
forget pride
your survival is more important

no one leaves home until home is a sweaty voice in your ear
saying-
leave,
run away from me now
i dont know what i’ve become
but i know that anywhere
is safer than here

--- Warsan Shire

Questioning Your Feminism

By those immaculate efforts
Of our handsome Bodhisattva
We both have acquired
The privilege of reading and writing
In our country
Where our ancestors were invisibilized
In the pages of history

Then we entered
Into white-collar professions
You married to a Brahmin man
I married to a Brahmin girl

We both have begotten children
You did his Mundan and
Performed Satyanarayana's Puja


I recited Pancheel at the birthday
Of my girl child

Later as your child grew up
He voted for the religion
My girl voted for principles

Of course, his candidate won

Tell me
In what theory of feminism
I should understand
The politics of womb
In Caste society?

---Yogesh Maitreya

Trees

I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.

A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the earth’s sweet flowing breast;

A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;

A tree that may in Summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;

Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.

Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.

--- JOYCE KILMER