Creation and Criticism

PCK Prem (PC Katoch Of Garh-Malkher, Palampur, Himachal, A Former Academician, Civil Servant And Member Himachal Public Service Commission, Shimla), an author of more than fifty-five books, is a poet, novelist, short story writer, translator and a critic in English and Hindi. Associated with several social/ literary organizations, he has brought out eleven volumes of poetry besides six books on criticism, four books on ancient literature, two on folk tales, six novels and three collections of short fiction. In Hindi, he authored twenty novels, nine books on short fiction and a collection of poems besides critical articles, reviews and critiques published in various national and international journals and anthologies. PCK Prem - Echoing Time and Civilizations 2015 and The Spirit of Age and Ideas (in the Novels of PCK Prem) in 2016 and Kathasagar of PCK Prem are books on him.

1. A Mother

She paints breathings in the air
as the first giggle spreads.

She prays, hums and enjoys lullaby,
songs, sculptures and paintings
larger than god’s sniggers
with hallowed edits,
mom’s heart it is, sanctified as an idol
in a temple with a soft song
for a cradle-child
offering a unique feel of heaven.
Impossible to equal humanity of sighs
a mother in woman dissolves fond groans,
in hymns, melodies
and tunes of earth and gods.

I know a woman – a mom, courted
but never invented
another woman taller than words
and holier
alas demystified.

More than Gita, Koran, and Bible
of soft love words perhaps
possible to liken a woman
to god or a saint
living or dead.

For here, man invents tales of lies.
As light as the stroke of breeze,
a fountain of intensity,
of passions, she is a firmament of glory
and ocean of love
and a spring of undying joy.
A sun, a moon and earth she holds deep
in the breast
and lavishes empathy.
That is a legend a man creates
to befool a mother,
while he loves to live with a woman
in lust and deceit.

A timeless river seems dry
as questions continue
to pester the panting and the weary woman,
while sighing in the hidden shrine
of a mother.

2. Life Enjoyable

You cannot gauge the depth of words
only you hear the noise
these make, forget, fall
into abyss as garbage greets
essence hazy
and at times, oblique
leaves wink at dusk.

Chanting goes beyond the ether
to write an obituary
of an unsung hero died in flood
violence of power let loose
on the crowd
wanting air and lexis
in zero hour.
Asks nothing
in spite of the key book
scribbled on pale palms
joined together to sing in silence
he hears, smiles and strikes head
fists get hurt
he vomits and goes
underground for fear of life.

Three paces are enough
to complete
journey of life
where you discern whiteness
a purity of inner man
you refuse to recognize
here rays go deep
lost in utter oblivion
find no identity.

3. Hopes Revisited

A sense of pride fills
and a man goes, returns to past, the young booming thrusting womb
greets somewhere a memory embryonic
to relive what she did and earned
and why the guilt and the deafening dissent
timidity and strain
of creation incomplete, and passions,
surging to detonate.

A man would never call life
a victory
defeat of love and warmth it is
he hesitates to concur
in an age of ethical challenges
and sermons many
where man grows to learn scriptures
at last to defy
and loves policy in relations
… for politics is a lethal drug
white, brown and black
that promotes ‘the self’ and destroys man
and carries the traditions of control.

For a post-modernistic disunity is the game of words
and hazy concepts
and mangled thoughts and botched feelings
and an the intellectual collects pieces
of bitty ideas life oozes out
raison d'être flouts validity quite often.

She tells many stories of initial years
of courting, sneers, doubts, quarrels and union
of water channels, fields and grassy joys together they wove
as birds up in the sky chirped
and signaled a night of intensity
of perfection and distortion in attendance.

And he was a man of humanity
of love as eyes intense and fiery
scared
‘I remember he sheltered many victims
of riots and mutual bickering,
of hate non-existent
but still registering a deadly presence of
mistakes of history one cannot forget.

The irony is one even fails to correct
what is so obvious. He is loud and scathing,
and bury the face in the full-size hug.

It is good to read history
past beguiles
wars create curiosity
about heroes and medieval damsels
in distress
but it is a myth so lethal
a civilized man often rewrites
and makes declarations of peace
and harmony butchered but still glow survives
to live life in hope.

4. ORACLES

(I)

In a day of pure inactivity
there are few of us with unsteady feet
who run amuck amid champagne burn
with reasons and emotions.

(II)

These communicate like dragons
relishing, arson, loot and rape
it is a bizarre truth
fathered by furies
that such men talk reasons
un- wanting these form
a collective conscience
of satans in command
of a Kingdom
where gods in frames pay
unrequited obeisance
and angels in tears burn incense
to appease and wish for a return
impossible.

(III)

All stand in stillness
undisturbed repose awaiting a dirge
making known death
in the Capital.
In Delhi it is neither
cooing of ducks
nor chirping of sparrows
it is not whistling of wind
no rustling among weeping willows
no crow or rook caws
but everyone hears and fears
clanking of bronze vessels
with flowing blood
vomiting oracles
difficult to decipher
a total chaos in meaning of Logos
it is a still time.
A state of inactivity is a stage
of madness
mind rebels
physique remains unquiet and waits
for release in unholy alliance
a mental escape without direction
and an approach
to joy awaiting an early finish.
Marked man looks out charmed
spells and magic in abundance
rummaging uncharted areas
of worldly joys
more physical.

(IV)

It is an activity of boring summer
when men watch
growth of weeds on untidy lawns
where roses grow in stunted shades
and dirty linen
dried in hot sun
eyes detect
impurities evaporating
and mixing up in mid air
without pouring out smell.
Man in white clothes
feels, finds reasons
and spits out squirms
and worships Lord Shiva’s linga
it is a spook like appearance
in the form of a man.

(V)

Here I stand among debris of oracles
which remain myths in crude living
after apparent sophistication
in spacious beds and in arms
delicate and dandyish
it is an acute embarrassment
of a man
when it converts a persona sin
into a general malady
to say that in a day of pure inaction
there are few of us
running amuck in non-existence.
And secretly run to panorama
of rapes and loots
and teach ethics
a propensity quelled.
That is a reason wide and deep
man in me makes personal fall
a collective debauchery.

(VI)

Uncalled for notions
defend a man
amending a man in me
in conference
remains active without moving
to live like
where none exists
man considered ailing in a crowd
when a wrinkled body in white hair
moves t make a tidy lawn
to spend an age in sun bath
where roses fade
on initial sprouting
like a child throbbing
an unwed woman
to avoid a social noise
walking in dirty streets
where open windows
and half open windows
and half shut doors
make a story without plot
it is a dilemma of my man
without name and identity.
It is soulless
a talking machine visibly
and praying for a human life
but exhibits no mercy.
An acute pain in inactivity
in the aftermath
of joys and orgies.

(VII)

It is living in shows
in painterly thoughts and wordy dreams
each hiding while running crazy
with others and getting dissolved
in order to learn to die and live
in a crowd of men gone mad
in hours of malaise
without cure in purple days.

5. Reflections

Elsewhere a part of life drifts
and connects to doubtful
swivel and feels secure
a tiny portion of feelings
disturbs now
and activates the mind to act.

A voice from somewhere
gains noisy meaning
in the solitude of mind
and prayers tell
that you are nearer god
and you smile.

He does not know
it is essential to protect
feelings and part of life
to guide mind
to the goal of inner peace
if you subdue the voice of sound
that causes uproar and disfigure words.

It is continuity
of dreams in real life
that weave hopes and joy
but forget to merge with
the doze of anguish
that makes life worth it.

You live with many falsehoods
and tell others to live in truth.
You go to a theatre and enjoy the words
and voices of personas
unknown and in little
search for identity you look sideway and writhe
as feelings assault,
and you weep with the man of stage
and move in shadows of the self as if transplanting
a new thought
in philosophy of life that scrambles
for a little hold to stand.

You understand what you do
but it is not in control
and in the ultimate analysis
you conclude that you had
botched the virtue of truth
in unrestrained noise of words
that wanted to reconcile
the part of life you lost earlier.

It is not a strategy to grow in isolation
of internal chamber
not a wish to pray in the corner of darkness
and disconnect the power wire that makes noise,
brings light
and communicates with the deities
you paste on the walls
that usually appear blank or…
to pull the curtain and finish
the tale midway
and you cannot call it life.