Outcast Child

From my window I can see the clinic in the west,

Thats where I took my injured son: they said it was the best!

I well recall its pleasant wards, that very pretty nurse,

And those few drops of blood that changed my youngster's universe.


There she goes, the girl who was the best friend of my son.

They filled my house with laughing, shouting, fighting, so much fun!

This house now laughs infrequently, her visits are so rare,

And memories are toys with which my son plays solitaire.


He gazes from the window at the lawns where all the day

His former friends are at the games he's not allowed to play;

He gazes till they've gone until the vision also fades

Of children who've avoided him since he acquired AIDS.


He is the child, the teachers said, whom everyone adores;

Why, Father, did you say, I'm sorry, son, we've closed our doors?

Upon those spacious lawns I wonder if you and your staff

Can hear among the joyous crowds the silence of his laugh.


He looks with longing at the road five hundred yards away

On which his brightly colored bus takes children every day.

Hes much too young to fathom human natures funny shades,

But old enough to know that he will never transmit AIDS.


You've loved him, doctor, like your own, and you will not deny

That every time he fell ill you were anxious more than I.

Yet, now when he requires it most, your healing touch evades

Him, although you, of all men, know, he'll never give you AIDS.


He stares, bewildered, where you stood, until his vision's dim

Of you and all those instruments that fascinated him.

The back that you now turn on him can't see how his eyes fill

With loneliness, and how they bravely manage not to spill.


The minutes pass like hours now, his time is yet more short;

He's learned the joy of having loneliness for an escort;

Those lips are mum, but I can see his thoughts reach out their arms,

And hear his eyes say, touch me please, world, I won't do you harm.



SUNEET SOOD

suneetsood@gmail.com

Review: I feel very deeply for the poorest of the poor but for those inflicted and affected with AIDS I don't know the word to give for the inconsolable sorrow that pervades my being and my eyes are filled with tears. You have written this poem with feel and emotion. It shows. Thanks. Reviewed by aryaindia







Come back, my love


Come back, my love.

I think I've spent a hundred hours

To decorate this house of ours

With roses, orchids, other flowers: oh, what a lovely sight!

And yet, the color and the scent

For only you were truly meant,

And in my eyes of discontent the brightest rose is white.


Come back, my love.

Its evening time, and drops of rain

Are splashing on our window pane;

Remember what a lust insane the monsoon could ignite?

Despite the glorious view I ache,

And wonder if the shower's fake,

As heart and window turn opaque along the fading light.


Come back, my love.

Let's dance: its Club Night Saturday,

And couples in the ballroom sway;

Yet not a man who's here today can hold his girl as tight.

Our band sees me, then eyes the door,

Expecting love to take the floor;

Among the throng the band wants more. It will not be tonight.


Come back, my love.

This verdant path on which we came

One spring night is again the same

As when aloud you'd vowed your name along with mine you'd write.

The moon is full, the stars still shine,

But oh, where is that touch divine,

The magic of your hand in mine, that brush with dynamite?


Come back, my love.

My darling, you're the world to me;

I moon for you, and all I see

Is you: I am, by fates decree, your constant satellite.

So, sweetheart, let me state anew:

I've loved, adored, and worshiped you,

Min, ever since my heart stopped Cupid's arrow in its flight!


by Suneet Sood

suneetsood@gmail.com


Review:

Goodness, Suneet! Could this get any better? Maybe you will wonder if I mean it at all, but this is extraordinary. For you to tap into and then control that longing to create such verse is mind boggling. Mini must be very thankful to have you and all of your words. What a birthday present this











Ring out, wild decibels


Once upon a midnight dreary, wife and I, both rather weary,

Fast asleep were in our room competing for the louder snore;

While the stars in peace were gleaming, while of starlets I was dreaming,

Suddenly there came a screaming somewhere from the room next door;

'Tis a surgeon, said I, starting, cutting in the room next door,

Sans the ether, nothing more.”


But my wife, who now was woken, not accepting what I'd spoken,

Held me by the butt and pulled so hard that my pajamas tore;

Your distraction is not funny: it's your home, not clinic, honey;

Go and tell our teenage sonny to be quiet, I implore!”

Helpless to refuse her order, off I staggered to implore;

Hid my butt, and nothing more.


To his room I started treading, deafened, nervous, fearing, dreading,

As the screaming and the screeching escalated to a roar;

For a while some more he clamored, for a while his door I hammered,

Then it opened, and I stammered, “Uh!” and fell down on the floor --

Flattened by a decibel tsunami lay I on the floor.

This was followed by one more.


While I was with earth connecting, and my modesty protecting,

Clutching to my clothes, which you'll remember that my sweetheart tore,

From inside my son came running, glared, and asked (with fiendish cunning),

Dad, egad, oh what a stunning noise you're making at my door!

In the middle of the night you hammer at my bedroom door?”

Then he glared at me some more.


Hit by accusals intensive I became a bit defensive,

And I stuttered, as I clung to my expensive wooden door;

Son, I heard you scream in panic...” This was a mistake titanic,

For my son went almost manic, and objection took galore,

Scream?” he screamed, “It's music! The expression of my skills galore;

Youre a boor and nothing more!”


Coming unforeseen to pester me, my philistine ancestor,

What a shame the talent of your own descendant you ignore!

All the boys are quite emphatic that my voice is charismatic!”

Then, becoming quite dramatic, pulled out cassettes from his store ,

Soon, perhaps, I will be earning like the chaps whose tapes I store,

Maybe earning even more!”


Though your attitude's appalling, acid rock will be my calling!”

(Acid? Id have thought “corrosive” should have been the name it wore.)

Humbled by my son's derision, grumbling, I took one decision:

I'd distinguish with precision rock from screams that shake the core,

Screams that patients make when dentists wrench a molar from its core;

Then my son could love me more.


Luckily a school was teaching to distinguish rock from screeching,

And I studied as I poured out hard-earned cash from every pore;

Making use of all my learning now I found myself discerning

Subtle differences turning up that hadn't turned before:

What was music, what was screaming, this I hadn't learned before;

Daily one learns more and more!


Now my son is there in college, where he sometimes picks up knowledge,

And hes made one tape that gets him money when he plays the score;

This record defies adjective; not that its at all defective;

Simple, short, and quite effective, but the words are only four!

Every day he makes me hear the tape with words no more than four:

MONEY, PAPA, GIMME MORE.”


By Suneet Sood

suneetsood@gmail.com


Review:

well you did say six months:) Id rather wait six months for one such as this...this isnt poetry ... this is an EPIC!!!!!! witty and pretty much perfect in its delivery even read aloud:) the like of poetry such as this is seldom seen!!!! congratulations Suneet, and glad to see your boy has you tamed:) oh dont even THINK to ask me to pull this one apart.. its already way too good!!!!!!!!











Divine design, or, how God made Aishwarya Rai


I took the moonbeam's silver light

A peacock's blue-green feather;

The morning dew, a snow-peak view,

And put them all together.


I used all My artistic might

And crafted to precision;

Then made stars lie in either eye

To make the face a vision!


I added, last, to make it right,

The mystery of Lisa;

A tiny dash of holy ash,

The warmness of Teresa.


I wouldn't miss for worlds the sight

That paid My arduous paces:

I'd made what all the earth would call

The Taj Mahal of faces.


Her beauty set My blood alight

And pulse a-wry a little

The heart divine I'm glad is Mine,

For human hearts are brittle!


By Suneet Sood

suneetsood@gmail.com


Review:

I do believe Love/Romance is the place this poetic beauty should reside. Your language is as lovely as the woman you so vividly describe. Every stanza is sheer delight











The Lord gave people piles to make their doctors smile


The bums were huge -- a butt deluge --

And overflowed the table,

I tried to place my patient's face:

But I was quite unable.

Two junior docs pulled up their socks

And pulled the bums to parting,

I hoped a lot the man would not

Select this time for farting.

I dived inside that great divide,

And gave a pile injection,

Then mopped my brow, said "Done for now,"

And made a last inspection.

I wrote advice, and took my price

(I billed him by the kilo),

And while the rest cleaned what I'd messed,

I lay down with a pillow.


A young assistant came, and this

Is what he said, with pity,

Sir, all the time youre in this slime:

Why is your job so shitty?”

I was inclined to speak my mind,

"There's no need to be haughty,

You must discern, my young intern,

The usefulness of potty.

The rectum: it's not full of shit,

Its full of jam and butter,

There's wealth enough to buy the stuff

That sets your heart aflutter.

It's this hole which makes doctors rich,

And don't you ever scoff it,

A mans rear end is, my dear friend,

An orifice of profit!”



by Suneet Sood

suneetsood@gmail.com


Comment: The setting for this poem is my clinic, where I am treating a VERY fat patient with piles. Occasionally all you can see is the bottom, no face. The inspiration for this poem came from the “offices of profit” political issue, that raised such a stink in early 2006.

Review:

You are mental! I haven't laughted so much in ages. May your profits keep flowing, and your patients keep showing. relief by your attention. No more anal retention. Agnes











The Rime of the Ancient Sex-maniac


The day that I turned eighty-nine

I met this maid so pretty,

She knocked my glands of endocrine

From nought to infinity.


She seemed, to my besotted view,

Not one day over eighty;

I thought there'd be a breast or two

Among those contours weighty.


I combed with care my strands of hair

(Of which I had a couple),

And oiled my muscles everywhere

To make those limbs more supple;


And then I picked my walking-stick,

My hearing aid, and glasses,

And quickly read the book: "The Trick

Of Making Winning Passes".


I reached her house with luck and pluck,

When no one could observe us;

I feared I'd suck at *presbyfuck:

No wonder I was nervous!


She came. I squinted through my specs,

Explained the situation,

And said, "If you've the time for sex

I have the inclination."


She laughed so hard -- I saw her shake

From humor and from doubting,

"Aha," she grinned, "you want to take

Your testes for an outing!"


I winced, but said I liked her wit;

She said, "Well, you can try it;

D'you think your flesh is up to it?

It is? Let's verify it!"


But I had less skill than I hoped,

(I felt like such a dummy)

For every single time I groped

I only grabbed her tummy!


Undone, I turned my periscope

From fore end to the after,

But every hot, determined grope

Just tickled her to laughter!


There'd never be, I knew by then,

The meet of sperms with ova,

For I was fourscore years and ten:

No longer Casanova.


I tottered home, dismayed at this

Array of misadventures;

To think, we couldn't even kiss:

I'd left behind my dentures!


by Suneet Sood

suneetsood@gmail.com


*Comment: The word presbyter means an elder, and derives from the Greek root presbys = old man. In medicine, presbyopia is an eye disease of old persons, presbyesophagus is a swallowing disorder of old people, presbyacusis is a hearing disorder of old people, and presbyatry is the study of old age (=geriatrics). I don't know any other presby-words, but am willing to invent some.


Review:

LOL! x2 is how I begin this giggling review! So very clever and written with eloquent humor. I came not knowing quite what to expect and found this fun rhyme so light and airy.

Your last stanza is just so apropos! LOL!

After he carefully remembered everything else! LOL!

You have greeted my day with a grand belly laugh and I thanks you, Alas







A single life


I’m happy with a single body, single soul and heart,

And with one mind, although, my love, you know it’s not too smart;

But if you think I’m satisfied, I’ll tell you, that’s not true:

For just one life is not enough to spend, my love, with you.


It’s okay that God made a solitary universe;

I’m glad we have one sun and just one moon: it could be worse;

And over me it’s adequate to have one sky of blue,

But just one life is not enough to spend, my love, with you.


I know your love and care for me is more than I could need,

Yet I am only human, dear, susceptible to greed,

And though of everything for me a small amount will do,

A single life is not enough to spend, my love, with you.


By Suneet Sood

suneetsood@gmail.com








Drunk as a Lordship


The Judge is quite inebriated”

Thought the prisoner as he waited

For his sentence (he’d been stealing –

Open-shut, no point appealing),

Shtealing shtars!” exclaimed His Honor,

Vroom,” he boomed, “you are a goner!”

Then he picked and swung his gavel,

Missed his desk and hit his navel;

Oh, me Lud, thou dost not like us,”

Thought the stricken umbilicus;

And the Judge fell floorwards, neck-first,

Bringing out a bit of breakfast.

Lawyers, clerks, a passing tourist

Went to lift the luckless jurist.

Helped up by some legal action

Stood His Lordship, lurched a fraction,

Shrugged away the men who bore him,

And addressed the man before him:

Cashe Dishmisshed!” he told the captive,

Who, though bent, was not inactive,

And was gone ere one said “Linger”!

Judge then aimed a vicious finger

At his gavel, “Hideoush hammer,

Thirty daysh inshide the shlammer!”


by Suneet Sood

suneetsood@gmail.com


Comment: A chap I knew (usernamed “Vroom”) wrote a poem about a thief who stole stars. Not the celestial type, but virtual stars awarded by a reader to a fellow poet. This poem was a response to that poem.






To My Teacher

You gave me learning, and, indeed,

You guided every thought and deed.

One day, you’ll point at me, and say,

That student’s mine,” and on that day

I’ll know that I succeed.

by Suneet Sood

suneetsood@gmail.com








Hi, cuckoo


The birds flew, stricken.

The Quack said, “Hi, could you please

Lay off the chicken?


Endure the murky

Vegeteranian seas,

And eschew Turkey


Remain on your legs;

Know that dropping means disease,

And just drop the eggs.”




(This haiku

Is about bird flu

And doctors and quacks say that you

Should probably avoid eating chicken and other birds too

Because the H5N1 virus can go from the bird to you

Through eggs, bird feathers, bird droppings, and suchlike bird goo)


by Suneet Sood

suneetsood@gmail.com






Dhruv

If we were to set out to find us a game

Inviting

Fulfilling

Exciting

And thrilling

Our choice would certainly then be the same

A baby, and surely dhruv would be his name


Or if we decide we require a pet

Heartwarming

And muddly

And charming-

Ly cuddly

There isn’t a doubt that the one we would get

Would be a child; would he be dhruv? you bet


If god would allow us to choose our own son

More pretty than flowers

And naughty but ours

Were sure absolutely that he would be none

Other than Dhruv our adorable one

by Suneet Sood

suneetsood@gmail.com








Let me be your louse


I want to be the dog that runs around you,

I want to be the papoose on your back;

I want to be the ghost who comes to hound you,

I’ll be that split personality you lack.


I’d like to be the louse beneath your clothing,

The bedbug that will taste you every night,

Though I won’t ever dream to harm you, old thing,

Id love to be you personal parasite.


I’d like to be the flea upon your skin-side,

Perhaps a fungus, growing bud by bud,

Id love to be the tapeworm living inside,

I’ll even be the virus in your blood!


I’ll never mind being anything howe’er small

So long as of you, dearest, I’m a part,

But I would love to be, my sweetheart, most of all

The man who’ll always live inside your heart!


Continuation....(18.6.1992)

I want to be the frown upon your forehead

I want to be the thought that makes you smile

Id love to be the that word that you left unsaid

The event that made you happy for a while


Ill be the necklace who will get to hug your neck

The cup of juice your mouth so gently sips

That nervous fingernail that maybe you will peck

Id love to be the red upon your lips


I want the be the foam on which youll sleep tonight

I want to be the pillow neath your head

Id like to be the sheet that you will cling to tight

Id like to be the teddy of your you bed


I want to be the belt that gets to kiss your waist

I want to be the perfume on your breast

And since now my desires are getting quite unchaste

I think id better give my thoughts a rest....













Use universal precautions!

You may with safety cheat at your exams now and then

You wont be caught if you evade your taxes yet again

And when you jump you 100th red light still you'll get away

Even God may spare the lightning bold from people who won't pray

You may escape Big Brother's eye: but you just cannot beat

the virus, and the coccus, and the deadly spirochete


by Suneet Sood

suneetsood@gmail.com













This heart is now asking for more

A tribute to every brave soldier

 

At eighty degrees the incline is quite steep

and the ridge where I stand isn’t wide;

The edge of the ledge is unnervingly deep,

somewhat smudged by the clouds on the side.

The mountain’s a menace, a monster of rock,

where survival is less than a dream;

The wind has discovered a talent to shock

as it chills with a banshee-like scream.

Ahead, I expect I'd enjoy what the west

would display, were it not for the mist:

I’d love my last look as the sun goes to rest …

for tonight I will cease to exist.

 

At five thousand meters the oxygen’s rare

and I must make a stop for some air;

A hundred feet up is the enemy’s lair

which my ambush will try to impair.

We started out three, but I’m now all alone,

for my partners have fallen from luck:

They’re sleeping below on a mattress of stone,

while I salvage the shards of my pluck.

Within a few hours my time will be gone:

I reflect on my life and its worth,

Recalling those few whose affection I’ve borne

in the days that I stayed on the earth.

 

I think of my brother, my partner and friend,

and his pride when I chose to enlist;

My sister, whose worship and love wouldn’t end;

I can feel her caress on my wrist.

My mother, to whom I’m the cosmos itself,

she will turn to the skies to implore --

She’s hungry for news, while she’s starving, herself,

that her baby is safe and secure:

The news that regrettably never will be:

Oh my mum, I can’t bear your despair;

Why can’t I abandon this post and be free?

Can you live if I’m no longer there?

 

The swirling mists suddenly conjure a face –

it’s the face of my idol, my dad,

Whose essence inhabits each thought I embrace,

who has set every standard I’ve had.

I’ve sat on his shoulders and slept on his chest,

I have grown in the wake of his eyes;

He taught me which values in life were the best

and the ones decent people despise.

My love I concealed when I took very briefly

a blessing to win at his feet.

If I don’t survive he’d be buried in grief...

but he’ll die if I dare to retreat.

 

For courage is more than a word in his list,

where retreat is the right of a knave;

The finger that steadied my juvenile fist

seems to point to the path for the brave.

My target awaits, there is work to be done,

and this heart is now asking for more;

I rapidly gather my grenades and gun

as the spirit commences to soar.

I know when I’m fighting tonight I will fall,

yet I know that our war will be won.

Whenever Papa sees my face on the wall

he'll be proud that this boy was his son.

 

by Suneet Sood

suneetsood@hotmail.com

 

Comments:

"In July 1999 India and Pakistan fought a bitter war on the mountains of Kargil. There are stories of unbelievable bravery. This poem is my tribute to the Indian soldiers (also to the Pakistani soldiers, actually, and in fact to every soldier). The title is a translation of Capt Vikram Batra’s famous declaration.









To live the farthest


The snow-capped mountains, and dew-kissed flowers,

The dancing rivers, and sparkling showers,

The whispering forests, caressing breezes

Say “This land was made for you and me”.


I drew the weak hand,when God was dealing,

I must swim upstream, but I’m not squealing,

For I have one life, to live the farthest

In this land that’s made for you and me.


I talk the same themes, which you are talking,

Sachin and Scooby, Harry and Hawking,

Like you I'm dreaming of deeds titanic

In this land that’s made for you and me.


There’s hope for freedom from my seclusion,

More than compassion, I’d like inclusion,

And when you reach out, I’ll know for certain

Thet this land was made for you and me.


By Suneet Sood

suneetsood@gmail.com











Anniversary time


If you think that each year you'll get a neatly written verse, you're wrong. You may as well forget the thought. You should not nurse a hope that I will have the time, the inclination, mood, to find some words and make them rhyme, and then for long hours brood on whether you will like my stuff! I sure as hell am not a ruddy poet! I've had enough of all this sort of rot.


Ill say therefore what I've to say without a dance or song, but in my maybe boring way: not stanzas four lines long:


You are the queen of all my heart, my favorite thought and dream, my sweetie pie, my lemon tart, my fav'rite icy cream; my world of which I’m just a moon whose one-way face and mind will always try to be immune to charms of any kind. You're also air and food and drink to me. In fact you are my life's sustenance, I should think.


And if this sounds bizarre you are to blame that I'm in need of you so strict that you might be my tot of rum, and I your poor addict!


If you want this in rhyming verse just write it on your own (I'm sure youll make it sound much worse!).

While learned men have shown that love writes poetry all the time, don’t think I do not love. If you love me you'll see the rhyme within the words above.


By Suneet Sood

suneetsood@gmail.com









I Love you

I love you when you're loving me but even when you're not;

I love you when were best of friends but even when we've fought;

I love you when your tempers nice but even when you're cross;

I love you when you let me rule but even when you're boss;

I love you when you dress up nice but even when you're plain;

I love you when you're modest, sure, but even when you're vain;

I love you when were on the courts and even when we swim;

I love you when youre bright and sharp but even when you're dim;

I love you when you cook for me but even when you don’t;

I love you when you press my clothes but even when you won't;

I love you when you when youre slim and trim fat;

I don’t just think the world of you: I love you more than that;

I love you when youre near to me but even when you're far;

I love you every second, and, it follows, every hour;

I love you when you're constant, and each time you change your hue;

And if my point you’ve still not got, its “MINI I LOVE YOU”.

by Suneet Sood

suneetsood@gmail.com













Jabber@wocky.com

(Or, how Lewis Caroll would have written his poem today)


A Brillig (60 megatoves),

Two serial gimbles, cordless wabe,

A 12x drive from Borogrove,

56 K mome Outgrabe!


Beware the Jabberwock, my son!

The kilobytes programmers dread!

And should the Jubjub.exe run

You're Basically dead.


He ran the Vorpal Vax in A,

Long time the bug he sought, in vain!

The hard disk crashed, his files were trashed:

He booted yet again.


And as he ran his config.sys

The Jabberwock, through Window, Gate,

And Office, aimed, it did not miss,

And smashed the 98!


One two, one two! a virtual coup!

The Vorpal Vax made brief exam,

And like a viagra-quickened Niagara,

Struck hard within the RAM.


And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?

Then let us boot once more

Ah wondrous view, the screen asks you,

"Abort, retry, ignore?"


A Brillig (60 megatoves),

Two serial gimbles, MSwabe,

A 12x drive from Borogrove,

56 K mome Outgrabe!


Suneet Sood