Madhu Raghavendra's Poems


 
Oxygen 

I am not sure how 
to say this in a flowery way.
This may not be poetry
for readers to review 
or for critics to comment. 

But there is no poetic way to say
that people are dying merely
from lack of oxygen supply
in this second wave of COVID.  

There is no poetic way to say  
that the corporations and 
governments that bring us 
stolen, refined, heavily taxed petrol, 
or cobalt mined by children in Congo 
for phone batteries, 
or children-mined mica from Jharkhand 
for glittery cosmetics, 
could not merely bring oxygen 
for the sick. 


Thinking of colours

a Pomeranian’s head stuck out 
of a speeding car window white

the misprints on 
the election manifesto black

a cab driver opens 
the moving car door, stoops 
and spits on democracy red

the lines more real than equator
the farmer's palm reads brown

a pen crushed under 
the government's sole
leaks blue 

the long pipes in the sky
from oil refineries fumes yellow

the dead air space these days
does not grow green.

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