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Two Poems by Chandramohan S

When cops come to frisk you

1. Batting an eye lid
In the midst of an excruciating questionnaire
Could be a tad too immodest.

2. He could try mock intimidating techniques
Like the cacophony of revving a car
Engine with gear set to neutral.

3. Learn to steady your breath
Like an undercover cop
In a trigger happy gang.

4. You both have each other’s face
To ascertain the time epochs
Each of you is living in- untranslatable in time.

5. He could lop some withered branch
Of your family tree and ask you to
identify the leaves.

6. If he greets you in your rustic dialect,
Return the serve.

7. He may try to ascertain the blood pressure
Of your privilege coursing your veins.

This whole conversation is jarring like a poem translated
Into a language with no word for the missing rib.

History is Muse

The muse offers herself in full glory;
Every historian knits her second-skin lingerie
With the needles of the moral compass
Unleashing new sunshine into the
Time’s crevasse.

The historians
Unravel new erogenous zone
Like discovering a new continent
On a maiden voyage along
The contours of her nerve endings.

Her tongue during the stone-age was flint knife.
Now her tongue is the state of the art
Swiss-knife with each blade a
Sickle, hammer, trident, dagger, swastika!

The sky littered with
Constellations of stars like transient poems
With every successive constellation
Drifting with the speed of light
To the holy grail of Hercules.