Monday, November 20, 2006

Mack English

Mack English is spoken
Though at times it’s broken
In Bombay and in Girgaon,
In Goa and in the Konkan.

Grammar we know none,
Speaking Mack is fun.
We talk like dis only
For we are like dis only.

Father forgive, don't hate;
Mass and confession can wait,
It's feni and fish we crave
Before the call of the grave.

Johnny play the bongo,
Michael sing the Fado[1],
Together we will dance,
And Rosy and Reena we will romance.

[1] Fado, a Portuguese song

Friday, November 03, 2006

To a Reluctant Writer

You can pick meaning off words,
You can paint pictures;
You can laugh at them,
Who laugh at you;
You can mourn,
The follies of the unwise.

To write is power,
Of words, thoughts,
Limitless, boundless,
As the sky above and earth below;
You will never be alone,
When words churn in your mind.

You can be heartbroken,
And cry and cry;
But a poem would wipe tears,
Puts a smile on your face,
Erase the pain,
Of loneliness and love.

So won’t you write?
A letter, a poem, an essay;
We would wallow in its depths,
Smile at its humor,
Relish what pains it took you,
And forgive friendly trespasses.

(c) November 2006