For Pastor Martin Niemoller (1892 – 1984)

When,

the hushed rage of prejudice rejoices in triumphant pomp and hateful ceremony

and,

the silent dagger of fascism plunges deep into the soul of a world bereft of hope

and,

the long knife of embraced apathy twists and turns in the backs of the weakened ones

then,

maybe we’ll open our eyes

and perhaps then we’ll open our sewed-up mouths

and maybe only then will we whimper in mock shock and oblivious surprise

for,

the festering hate that spirals around us

in the fertile minds of quasi-intellectual bigotry

is unafraid and speaks in the loudest baritone

yet,

we accept

we acquiesce

we wish it all away

but,

there will come that time when the lines are drawn

when the purest hearts of silently smiling bigotry will hold the world in their sway

with their cherubic, agreeable arguments sprinkled with pieces of fact that will kill, rape and slay

what then,

I ask, will we do that day?

For Mother Teresa

to see…

the clarity of beauty between the murky folds of life

to see…

the simple truths of living
between the horror and the endless strike

to see…

the innocent smiles of the children at play
while the elder preach hate and division and continue to slay

to see…

the endless yearning for that simpler better place
away from the hollow emptiness of this ostentatious space

to see…

the open vistas of this pale blue dot
the soft reds and fruity greens as this home is all we have got

to see…

the tears of the dispossessed who have been cruelly cast aside
and while we look the other way from their tears we may never hide

to see…

the endless hunger and despair and killing and greed
in the name of God or of ideology or of some or the other creed

to see…

and to see it all

and still stand tall

to hold on to the humanity

that resides deep within us all

may be our only saving grace

and though all of this sounds quaint and saccharine sweet

I need to remember all that I’ve said

the next time I look into a teary-eyed desolate face

to see…

that being human is simple if we only look beyond ourselves and see

that we are all one, him and her and them and us and you and me…

I Want to Walk with You

I want to walk with you with our heads held high

Never cowering, never with heads bowed

With our feet on this blessed soil, and our dreams reaching for the sky

 

Dreams of simple joys and of peace and of mirth

For all our fellow travelers on this delightful earth

 

Dreams not of wealth or of positions of high standing or of mighty power

Simple dreams of a walk in the aftermath of a Johannesburg evening rain-shower

 

Dreams of bread and water and dignity and shelter and clothes for all

Dreams where all fellow travelers may together walk this earth proud and tall

 

I want to walk with you, my fellow traveler, with our heads held high

Never pandering to power, never silent in the face of its abuse

Always firm in our convictions that we can all make peace if we only try

 

If we try to stop and think and sometimes not to look the other way

If we practice what our different creeds really teach, we will surely see that day

 

When we all, fellow travelers may walk with our heads held high

Never cowering, never with our heads bowed

With our feet on this blessed soil, and our collective dreams reaching for the sky

 

Call me silly, call me naive, call me hopeless, and if you must, call me weak

But is this not the common good that our different creeds and cultures all seek?

Pyaasa (thirsty)

I’ll have none of it.

The glittering vulgarity on crude display,

puffed-up egos wrapped in vacuum-sealed packs,

adorning the sterile aisles of shining malls with their endless racks.

 

 

 

I’ll have none of it.

The broken & battered souls swept up in the tide,

of holidays by the sea and drinks on the ninth hole of the course,

deaf to all cries & whimpers but for the closing bell of the bourse.

 

I’ll have none of it.

The endless parades of ostentatious pomp and raucous laughter,

deadened spirits aspiring for nothing more than an unquenchable greed,

haughtily trampling the ‘other’ in the crass pursuit of what next desire to feed.

 

I’ll have none of it.

the wilful silence of the privileged few among the numberless many,

so eloquently articulate and quick-witted in hour upon hour of polite chatter,

yet mute and hushed by sips of Chivas when the raging war outside doesn’t matter.

 

I’ll have none of it.

None of this nauseating mockery and none of this reeking sham,

I’ll have none of it for I was there once and lapped up the vulgarity of it all,

I’ll have none of it now, though, so you may as well put me up against the wall.

I’ll have none of it now for I was there once and soaked in that intoxicating air,

I’ll have none of it now, though, so if tonight I sleep forever, I’ll be the last one to care.

 

(For Guru Dutt, 1925 – 1964)