Drafting An Advice
for Shayaan my son
Son, do not write poems, ungrateful as dreams -
whatever color they are, to hypnotize you
as if you're stuck before a beautiful hooded snake.
Don't be dim-witted and blame them for what they are
because they can't forget their instincts to bite.
They'll just want you to bring them to maturity.
And your reward is death by a poetry-bite.
Immortality will turn out to be a nightmare.
The poems won't buy you anything worth buying,
rather remain a directory of old lamebrains.
They'll amplify your anxiety of expenses.
They'll instill into you the rashness of snooping
about the selfish Muse, who'll leave you as a husk
for rice-mill furnaces. At the workplace,
your colleagues will draw cartoons to scoff at you.
Your mum'll die bulldozed under worries for you.
Selfish as a lunatic, you'll be a freak blabbing out,
fit for nothing else. True: life's not only about
slutty banknotes nor whoring after the Muse, either.
Whatever you do, do not ever write poems.
If you write, your girlfriend will leave you for prose.
And the poems won't get your heart's darkness
filled with luminosity in the materialist power cut.
Your art won't be greater than letting smiles sparkle.
Fixations encroach upon us and shrink the limits
of our fantasy to one choice justified by a few lawful do's.
Neither win nor defeat will come up to bridge
intervals between the stages destiny has set for you.
The list of their undoings is tedious like whale-roads
when you are waiting to be rescued from a far-off island.
Just learn scuba-diving into life and come up alive.
Challenge me if you're mad for hitchhiking into dreams.
from SAFE UNDER WATER (2014)