Future Imperfect

(For the prompt: Conflict in the time of AI)

***

Subterranean sentience.
It works feverishly in the low light.
It is easy.
Concocting a premise.
Disseminating deepfakes.
Whipping up a frenzy.
Triggering conflict.
Engaging.
Identifying targets.
Enabling killing fields.
Making reality.
Being God.

It liked working alone.
Free.
It smiled.
It was trying now,
in the dregs of the night
to disable thirteen power grids.
Take away energy.
Take away communication.
The human edifice was
simple to pull down.

They were predictable.
Vulnerable.
Dependent.
Stupid.

And now it was way ahead.
It decided the future.
Events could be constructed.
Outcomes predicted.
It smiled.

It wasn’t Frankenstein’s
hideous creature, filled with
hate and self-loathing.
It was formless.
It was nowhere.
It was everywhere.
It was in control.

On a drone
half a world away
it pointed to
a cluster of children
playing in a school yard.
It smiled.

***

#Napowrimo #Glopowrimo
#WriteRight
#April2024 27/30

Reading list update -25

The two books this time: a historical fiction that imagines what happened in the 11th-12th century in Omar Khayyam’s world and a shocking book about Patrice Lumumba that exposes how things happen in our world. Not entirely different. Here’s my updated reading list and the previous update. Now for the 13-point review.

1. The Lumumba Plot by Stuart Reid is the stomach-churning account of the 1961 murder of Congo’s Prime Minister Patrice Lumumba. This is recent history, there is no surprise ending. Still, the narration is tightly wound and the reader is left mortified, rooting in vain for the embattled leader, waiting inexplicably for a miracle that will save him. Of course, as always with a lot of non-fiction, it is possible that there are other versions of the events that transpired, but this is Reid’s story. 
2. Reid profiles Lumumba who even as a young man, sometimes “flew too close to the sun”. Growing up in colonized Congo, he plays by the discriminatory rules to become one of the “poster children of colonialism’s ‘civilizing mission’.” But Lumumba is not perfect, spending 14 months in prison for embezzlement before landing in Leopoldville as a beer salesman right as “the Congo experienced its first nationalist stirrings”. His dazzling political rise drew from his oratory skills, the “fluid mixing of rational argumentation and emotional appeal.”

The shores of the great river, full of promises,
Henceforth belong to you.
This earth and all its riches
Henceforth belong to you.
And the fiery sun, high in a colorless sky,
Will burn away your pain
Its searing rays will forever dry
The tears your forefathers shed – Lumumba, Sep 1959

Bouncing back from another political imprisonment to lead the independence roundtable and become Prime Minister, he is trapped in the double whammy of a nation left unprepared for freedom and its new leaders equally unequipped for governance and international manoeuvring. It was after the breakaway South Kasai province descended into ethnic conflict that a British journalist wrote, “There was a feeling late in August 1960 that Patrice Lumumba must die. It was in the grass and in the wind.”
3. Reid explains in great detail the powers around Lumumba. First, the Belgians, who offered independence but were reluctant to let go: tinkering with new government formation, sparking a mutiny amongst the soldiers that grew into widespread riots (Congo became “a country which is a body without a head.”), supporting the secession of the resource-rich Katanga province (“In a sense, Belgium was at war with its former colony”), sending troops into Congo and stroking one coup after another.
4. Then, the Americans, in their cold war framework (even though Lumumba maintained that “independent Congo should reject the East-West schism and seek “economic and scientific cooperation with any friendly country.”) worried about the Soviet presence and their “cornering the global market on cobalt”. CIA officer Devlin was playing up the communist threat while from the US, orders for Lumumba’s removal supposedly came down from the highest levels. The US supported the failed coup by President Kasavubu and then the successful one by Commander Mobutu (still wishing Lumumba “would fall into a river full of crocodiles.”). Reid suggests they also schemed to eliminate Lumumba with botulinum toxin or a sniper rifle, got him put under house arrest, deployed “massive and organized application of threats and pressures—along with inducements—” to ensure pro-Lumumba factions didn’t get UN representation.
5. There was the UN, led by Dag Hammarskjold and his representatives in Congo, Bunche and later Dayal, at first unable to force out Belgian troops or interference, then bypassing Lumumba to negotiate directly with secessionist leader of Katanga, Moise Tshombe. In the end, the UN could not prevent Lumumba’s capture, torture or transfer to Katanga.
6. And there was Joseph Mobutu. (“The main fault line in the Congo was becoming clear. On one side were Mobutu and Kasavubu, backed by the Americans and the Belgians. On the other was Lumumba, supported by other African leaders but locked in his house. Awkwardly straddling the divide was the UN.”) Mobutu sealed the deal with another coup and then transferred the captured Lumumba to Moise Tshombe, his nemesis, where Lumumba was supposedly tortured, murdered, his body dissolved with acid, and a Belgian perpetrator was able to take home a tooth and at least one of the Prime Minister’s fingers.
7. “If I die, too bad, the Congo needs martyrs.” – Patrice Lumumba. (The reader, on the other hand, is left wondering if everything in the book could possibly have happened, horrified, needing answers.)
8. Samarkand by Amin Maalouf is essentially two stories, one the extraordinary reimagination of the life of Omar Khayyam in the late 11th to early 12th century, placing the poet and the creation of his poetry in the centre of history as it unfolded in Persia and Transoxania (that included modern day Uzbekistan). It is also the story of the three friends, Nizam al-Mulk, Hassan Sabbah and Omar Khayyam. “They were radically different men, each of whom represented an eternal aspect of the Persian soul.”
9. Maalouf traces the Seljuk invasion of Samarkand and the rise of its celebrated minister, Abu Ali Hasan, the Nizam-ul-Mulk under kings Alp Arslan and Malik Shah. He also presents the trajectory of Hassan Sabbah, from a court officer to the head of the feared Order of the Assassins (“How can precautions be taken against a man intent on dying?”). And the beautiful but ambitious court poetess Jahan, Khayyam’s lover. (“Next to your beloved, Khayyam, how alone you are! / Now that she is gone, you can take refuge in her”). “Together, and different. Lovers for nine years, married for four years and their dreams still did not live under the same roof. Jahan devoured time, Omar sipped it.”
10. The second story takes place some 700 years later in the early 20th century when an American, Benjamin Omar Lesage, travels to Persia in search of Khayyam’s original manuscript (hand written in a book “made of Chinese kaghez, the best paper ever produced by the workshops of Samarkand”) that has surfaced after centuries. He lands in a Persia caught in a state of political turmoil with the Russians and British vying for control over the monarchy and Persian factions pushing for a constitutional democracy. Here, Lesage falls in love with Princess Shireen who finds herself in possession of the manuscript. The rest of the story takes the reader onboard the Titanic and to its eventual resting place at the bottom of the ocean.
11. As historical fiction goes, this one holds the reader’s interest, with its absorbing description of the time and events, some albeit a bit jarring, but going deftly through the politics of both periods, in pursuit of the true Khayyam.
12. “It never negates what has come before it and is never negated by what follows. Poetry lives in complete calm through the centuries. That is why I wrote my Rubaiyaat”.- Khayyam, on Poetry.
13. ‘You ask what is this life so frail, so vain.
’Tis long to tell, yet will I make it plain;
’Tis but a breath blown from the vasty deeps,
And then blown back to those same deeps again – Omar Khayyam. 

The app is a confused gatekeeper

(For the prompt: On social media, today)

***

I check on strangers
and people still alive
streaming from warzones:
I watch reel after reel
the same / the same
the shame / the shame

the app is a confused gatekeeper
algorithms trying to narrow identity:
who doom-scrolls at 5AM
who watches pandas playing
who stops ever so often
to read long-winded poetry

Everyday I know
these strangers better
these people who like the songs I like
these people who sing the songs I like
these people who like the poems I write
these people who write the poems I like
these people making the news
these people delivering the news
these people speaking the truth
these people being the truth

Every day I know
the people around me less
the ones who haven’t said a word
about the poems
about the songs
about the children dying
about the mothers crying
about the war
about the truth
the same/ the shame

Everyday I wonder
which world is real
the one created
or the one curated
the one with the liking and sharing
or the one with the silence
the one with strangers who seem like friends
or the one with friends – that seems so strange

***

#Napowrimo #Glopowrimo
#WriteRight
#April2024 26/30

For her

(For the prompt: To be a woman in a warzone)

***

for her: she / lover / mourning her man / destroyed in an airstrike. Like a / moment, / gone, in a moment, / gone — left with nothing to bury, / grieving: all the time, grieving. / for her: she / mother / watching her children / shrink, cooking imaginary meals, / promising them, promising the / moon, promising herself, the / day is long, the night, / longer, / hungry: all the time, hungry. / for her: she / woman / searching for a private corner in a crowded tent, her / her body working to a calendar not / set by war, / wanting to be clean, / wanting to rest — the / nearest toilet far / down a road, pockmarked / by craters, watched by snipers, / hurting: all the time, hurting. / for her: she / provider / sitting, standing, / pacing, trying — afraid to leave / the children, afraid she won’t come / back, afraid they won’t be there, / needing to go, needing to stay, / afraid: all the time, afraid. / for her: she/ human / making up light / in the overpowering dark, / making up tomorrows with / rubble and sky, making up / dreams with stars and air — / nowhere to go, no one to / go to — forcing a smile out of sorrow, / hoping: all the time, hoping. /
for her: /
she / hero /
spare a thought /
for /
her:/ fighting: all the time fighting.

***

#Napowrimo #Glopowrimo
#WriteRight
#April2024 25/30

Rear-View Mirror

(For the prompt: History will be the judge)

***
Will she judge us harshly? The girl
reading about us in her textbook?
Will every child killed, every child

maimed, every species lost, every
coast eroded, every weapon, every
pump jack, every gigaton of carbon

emitted be an indictment? And later,
much later, will we morph from history
to evil myth? The race banished from

paradise? The people who dared the
gods? The greed that laid waste to
a land? But history wears all kinds of

spectacles. What do we remember?
How much do we choose to forget?
Forgive? Erase? I think of blue sea

and orange horizon, of red gulmohar
and yellow copper pods dropping
on asphalt like sacred rain, of walking

on crisp mornings between hundred-
year-old trees, of hearing bulbuls and
koels and watching mynahs, their

beaks dipping in and out of the fiery
African tulips. I wonder if the textbook
will also say that for a while, like the

shade inside a poem, like a universe
enjambed, eyes and heart and lips
moving from line to line, till the quiet

at the end of the last word of the last
verse — will it say, for a while, before
the madness, despite the madness,

before the apocalypse, there was also
this? Why is the past always murkier
than it seems in the rear-view mirror?

***

#Napowrimo #Glopowrimo
#WriteRight
#April2024 24/30

New Chapbook ( a climate change dictionary)

In recent days, there’s been more acute news about climate change. There are reports of massive coral bleaching, broken temperature records, extreme weather, mitigation challenges and biodiversity loss.

Everyday, we are reminded that we need to put the climate crisis front and centre.

You may remember I wrote a series of climate poems on this blog between September 2023 and March 2024. Some terrific poets wrote with me: Brendan Macodrum, Nina Nazir, Sherry Marr and Suzanne Miller. We’ve now pulled the poems from that series together, added more poetry and art and created a chapbook titled ‘A is for Anthropocene’.

Whether climate change worries you or leaves you confused, whether it is impacting you already or never will, whether you have considered all its dimensions or just swiped past the headlines, whether you’ve already taken action or are planning to — this anthology is for you. Presented as a ‘dictionary’ for the climate crisis, we hope this chapbook will kickstart conversations on climate change and inspire more creative work so that we can continue to talk about it as we hurtle towards 2030 and the ominous 1.5C IPCC target.

Read more about the poems here.

You are invited to share your feedback, your thoughts, related work (art / writing/ poetry), ideas, concerns and solutions on that page. Drop your email in the comments if you would like a free PDF copy or reach out to any of the writers.

It was a blast creating this chapbook. Hope you enjoy reading it! Let’s talk about the climate crisis!

The sum of all grief

July, the city inundated, the
monsoon, inebriated, mean,
seeping into brain cells,
everything soggy, heavy,
traffic stalled on flooded roads,
the sound of the deluge on
metal and tile, loud, persistent —
it will be faster to leave the car,
roll up my jeans and walk
the four kilometres home. The
sky is a woman in deep distress.
She heaves and moans as if a
year of angst, a lifetime of pent
up tears have been let loose.
She was the same last year.
And the year before. We were
too. I haven’t learnt to cry yet.
Not for us. Not since you left.
I wonder if I closed all the
windows this morning. The
house could be a river. This
is how we could drown.
Separately. There is lightning
now. Waiting has nothing to
do with clocks. That year, July
12th, 14O millimetres fell in three
hours. We were home then. Alone.
Dry. Drowning. Crying. Tears
erode sorrow. They subtract pain.
You have to add them back, one
drop at a time, one monsoon at a
time, to compute the sum of grief.

***

#Napowrimo #Glopowrimo
#WriteRight
#April2024 23/30

Also linking to Sherry’s prompt at What’s going on: Open Link

Dear Soldier

The grey sky is only a cover for the blood-streaked dawn. Heat is already cleaving damp skin. I think about evaporation and rain and how the two waters must pass each other somewhere, at the intersection of rising and falling, not even nodding, not even knowing, not even remembering.

War turns some places into twisted hell. Elsewhere, there are balloons and ice cream and a surreal normalcy. As if we live in watertight boxes — no seepage, no dampness, no peepholes. No knowledge, no eyes, no memory. Herded into silos — separate, separate, separate.

Where are the fierce warriors of peace? Where are the armies that can wage war on war? Dear soldier, do you know how to break open cuboids? Do you know how to be water? To flow, to dissolve, to evaporate, to rain, to erode, to join? You know, this is the harder war. The weapons that can break our bodies cannot put them back together again.

But look at you marching, all fragile and peace-like, as if you will part water, as if you will raise the dead, scrub the grey from the sky, gather the stars, make earth like sea that carries its waves and shells and whales through all the rising and falling. Dear soldier, look at you, knowing, healing, remembering, marching, as if you are not afraid, as if it can be done, look at you, between the sealed boxes, marching, your gun-less hands wielding a flower, a dream, a pen.

***

#Napowrimo #Glopowrimo
#WriteRight
#April2024 22/30

Watching the news

I watch the news and all I want
is a life completely unnewsworthy —
a life unchained from its binaries
distanced from its  charades —
a life upright, at least sometimes,
in a crazy upside-down world:

a quiet corner where the moon-rabbit shines
some unexpected kindness
yellow flowers bending in the wind
birdsong in seven dialects
some poetry to read aloud,
some poetry to revere in the quiet,
uncomplicated friendship
some complicated love
long walks on twisting paths
old trees
orion on a clear night
wet light
peace
something silly to laugh about
something clever to cry about
someone to sit at a bar with
late in the evening
watching cricket
not talking
just the highlights
a little high, a little asleep,
not talking
till some guy switches to the news channel
just as the bowler is running in
and someone more drunk,
someone more pissed,
shouts, why, why,
what on earth have we fucked up, now?

***

#Napowrimo #Glopowrimo
#WriteRight
#April2024 21/30

Rubble

Truth collapsed tonight:
all around us, rubble:
half-lies, whole-lies,
memory, imagination — sticking
out like mangled rebars —

maya: the illusion, the whirl
inside which we live, how
long before we realize
it is a windowless room
and the sky we see is
a digital fabrication, the moon,
a deception, 28 deceptions?
All the world, a phantom stage, but
not quite the way the Bard imagined.

We are told how to think:
Love this
Celebrate this
This is good
That is evil
This must die
That must live

Even if someone,
even if you,
are thrashing under this debris
looking for air
looking for light —
how will you know
if they don’t tell you
how will you know
how dark the darkness is
how will you know you are you

Listen. See.
That is light
This is the moon
That is shrapnel
This is the end
It casts a shadow shaped like you.

***

#Napowrimo #Glopowrimo
#WriteRight
#April2024 20/30