Modern Art

(This has been published in the Third Eye magazine of St. Joseph’s College, Bengaluru)

Oh lo oh so —
she is so avant-garde.
Oh lo oh so —
she’s so modern
with an accent
travelled from a land
I only hear of.
She walks around
with a veil of hipster.
But here I am
a half-ass hipster
with modern poetry
on WordPress.
I practice the accent
of how she says my name
’cause even that
how she says my name
is that addictive to my foolishness.
Oh lo oh so —
but she isn’t that of a modern art
’cause beyond that linseed oil
over the surface,
the paints are of tomatoes
and of mangoes,
cherries and blueberries;
’cause beyond her hipster friends
and our circumstances:
I, from a corner,
up in a valley from the hills;
she, from God’s country,
sprinkled with globalised modernity —
but beyond all this storyline architecture
for a drama ever so complicated,
it is written in her smiles
and in her ever so lovable child
I see playing in her heart
that we are lost souls
and our souls are traditionalists
destined to be drunk in madness
and love and chaos; mirrors
reflecting each other’s beautiful mess,
in an ever so complicated world.
Oh lo oh so —
I’m so helpless,
Oh lo oh so —
you,
you Modern Art.
I can read you.
I admire you.
But that’s all I could do.
I stand amongst a million crowd
like that scene in movies
where time and lives carry on
in a blurred frenzy,
but I,
I stand still and admire you,
you beautiful Modern Art.

For M
Neal Y (Phalguni Y)
September 2, 2016

A kind of love

I hate my writings.
I hate myself.
It is the purest hate,
pure like the morning sun, and
fresh like a bleeding cut
drawn at the wrist —
a cheap Topaz blade for blood.
It is the purest hate,
the love of the Devil.
A love still, nonetheless.

— Caliban sees himself in a writing.

Neal Ym (Phalguni Y)
November 7, 2016

The passing down of wisdom

What is art, you say?
The way a teacher dances
with his disciple,
and only —
only to the disciple
when he realises it,
sees it —
is art.
How do they dance, you ask?
Well, they play games,
a tap here, a tap there;
it is like
trimming a bonsai,
planting seeds of wisdom,
masked well,
hidden in disguise.

For AM
Neal Ym (Phalguni Y)
October 16, 2016