saraswati

Sardonic and seldom meet for wedlock

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

Sardonic and seldom meet for wedlock
The Warlock is all too cheaply brewed.

The aspect is truly wonderful,
But the nastiness signs the show.
Heaving is the buxom, rash ashes and crucibles
Havana for [                ], against the strain
Of a percentile.

That reptiles don’t claim.
A climbing frame is sought
An abacus is bought
The wielding of a sword is salacious
If Guinevere is Calvary for Lance’s hiatus.
Malory wasn’t malign,
Gawain wasn’t fined,

Computer time: The serpent winds
Wands in the Wood.
Women that could.
One day, few will own the many…
A lady seen today is conspicuous
Individual realms non-dueling
The gold prospecting
Aspects of dancing
Today is a day to celebrate
Next year we need to excel.

If a girl could do well
Shanti would read.
Saraswati delivers a letter
A liver seeks a lover for and water,

Rivets in Navratri,
Nine times she is denied with Indian daughters.
The Hills Have TMZ
Eyeshadow
Mascara
Black boasts of Kali clones
Sweating this small stuff: Rudra with paint.

Nature is quaint to know the bones of Alas! I knew him.
Be well with Yorrick
(Was?) the free house of Hindustan, ‘47 @ 1851
Origin:
The great McBride Mahabharata
But not for me.

AI Summary

Your poem weaves together medieval myth, Indian divinity, modern celebrity culture, and personal disillusionment into a single, swirling meditation on power, femininity, lineage, and the weight of history. You move from warlocks and crucibles to Guinevere, Gawain, and Malory, then leap into computers, serpents, wands, and the future where “few will own the many,” creating a world where magic, capitalism, and gender politics overlap. The poem shifts into Navratri, Saraswati, Shanti, and the denied daughters of India, contrasting sacred feminine power with the harshness of social reality. You fold in pop‑culture shadows — TMZ, mascara, Kali clones — alongside Shakespeare’s Yorick and the bones of memory, suggesting that both East and West carry their own haunted inheritances. The poem ends with a sense of exile and refusal: Hindustan’s free house, the Mahabharata reimagined, and a quiet admission that this grand lineage — mythic, national, ancestral — is somehow “not for me.” Beneath the imagery is a deeper ache: a longing to belong to these vast traditions while also recognising the pain, exclusion, and complexity they carry.

Monsters of Game

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

Monsters of fame know the game that I name
But redrawers of old drawers cannot know the originality:
I claim! Stay with me & you will see. That is seeing,
And I am being. Keyboard, laptop & mouse:
If I am not grateful for my house –
Then who is the Conglomerate upon me
Greater than the North Sea and the airspace now governed by the School of Commoning
And evolutionary strains for more melody than harmony
| The right to not be repeated |
Poetry will not be defeated.
Even clowns have hands to stand on,
Do not admire the programmers’ random.

There is no-one to know how the space can be cleared
Fellows handle doorknobs for men being a different kind of fellow they fear.
Estimation is a cleverer way of describing the giving
That has not thanks in the miniature that is still living
After the wars of the East that fell down for the cleanest cocking
Of a gun to not know the right time to go door knocking
And find the Dame with the same man: Sing to me your Christmas plan.

Some games knew boards and the years bowled over wickets
So that the PLO could go underground and down below
The seas of the wavelengths for Mata’s density and travels
In the New Age of opened bowels and tortured remains
So that Puja could clean brains and Aarti told Saraswati:
‘Better the devil she knew’. Time is through with you
Clouds have fractures and health knows matters
Knowledge is in tatters and men know manners.

So be polite as Jews feminise the day
And hurry back home from the Christian who is Jolly Roger,
Tomorrow it is karma for the Muslim to have sway
As Mind Body Spirit stays with it for ‘Who is gay?

AI Summary

This poem is a confrontation with power, identity, and the right to speak without being swallowed by the noise of the world. You open with fame, originality, conglomerates, the North Sea, evolutionary strains — all symbols of forces larger than any individual. You’re asking: Who gets to define meaning? Who gets to repeat? Who gets to stand out?

You then move into fear, masculinity, and social hierarchy — doorknobs, fellows, wars, guns, Christmas plans. These images show how men are shaped by fear of other men, by violence, by tradition, by the rituals of belonging and exclusion.

The middle of the poem becomes a swirl of politics, religion, and cultural inheritance: PLO, Mata, Saraswati, Puja, Aarti, Jews, Christians, Muslims, karma, Mind Body Spirit. You’re not attacking any group — you’re showing how identity becomes a battlefield when history, faith, and modernity collide.

This is the emotional centre: you’re overwhelmed by the way the world divides itself into tribes, labels, and competing truths.

The poem ends with a kind of exhausted satire — a world where everyone is categorised, feminised, masculinised, spiritualised, politicised, and judged. You’re naming the absurdity of it all: the way identity becomes a performance instead of a home.