CaPoWriMo – 30 Poems in April

CaPoWriMo 30 – IT IS DONE!

by Ampat Varghese Varghese on Thursday, 28 April 2011

My peculiar pilgrimage through this Valley

of the dethroned Shadow of Death

(Your Presence is with me!)

is education in the School of Humiliation,

I shall not want, lack, suffer hunger

(Your Presence is with me!)

I have cleared the necessary 12 grades,

erected milestones, anointed with oil

(Your Presence is with me!)

but climbing that Indian Rope Trick Ladder

is more descending than ascending

(Your Rod chastens me!)

what exactly is this Dream placed within me,

what if it is but a nuance of Future Hope?

(Your Rod chastens me!)

and when I look around this laden Table,

empty plates and places befriend me,

(Your Rod chastens me!)

I long so much to give and to give away,

and I hold the silver Chalice of Prana

(My cup runneth over!)

I burn both body and soul to bring laughter

to everyone in sorrow or bitterness

(My cup runneth over!)

Intentions and actions are not yoked together,

the unbelievers mock the gap in the believer

(My cup runneth over!)

I’ve bowed down my head to Fate or God’s Will

obeying silently the command “Be still’

(Holy! Holy! Holy!)

I’ve bared my back for stripping, the lashes,

no longer do I chafe against the bit

(Holy! Holy! Holy!)

I’ve blinded myself with harsh nights of prayers

for those I love, do they know I care, I care?

(Holy! Holy! Holy!)

I’ve been broken in for my fault of wanting life

and more of it, Life defeats the living,

(Where does my help come from?)

The Light comes in through dank pores of skin

and hides in the caves David hides within

(Where does my help come from?)

My enemies surround me bleating or bellowing,

the deeper I dig into Rock, more their cursing

(Where does my help come from?)

I wish I could gather all my loved ones into one

furry ball of eternal song and celebration

(Your Staff of Presence comforts me!)

It is done! It is done! It is done!

CaPoWriMo 29 – ISAAC

by Ampat Varghese Varghese on Wednesday, 27 April 2011 

I have learnt to be wary of the ‘holy

men who sleep on the beds of nails,

or mattresses of poisonous arrows,

with words of dew disguised as hail.

I met one a long time ago, in 1979,

it took many blue moons to remove

the Blanket of Spells spread o’er me

that lulled me in a Luciferian grove.

The nails that had entered his soul

he sought to hammer into my own

that I might sleep an angelic swoon

or wake to reap a dread seed sown.

That twilight, I thought I had found

‘Revelation’, but what came around

was ‘Initiation’, to Confusion bound

I wandered in Nightmares unsound.

The happiness I had known in gentle

Jesus, meek and mild, became Night,

I bargained ecstasy for dead insight,

I sold wise discernment for a thimble.

The Viking said Jesus was the Hindu

who strives for Godhood with might,

‘a’ man who slayed the Sin in himself

to fill his fallen Soul with self-lit light.

When he had flushed out his earthly

lusts from within his fleshly  carcass,

he became the Son of God, honored

for succeeding unlike all others, alas!

See, now it’s possible, the Liar preached

like all False Angels before him, for Dust

corrupted by Lust to become Diamonds;

so climb the Ladder, yes, now you must!

For years I fought to remove the Stains,

long nights I wept and then wept again,

battles were won but the war was lost,

my eager soul became covered in frost.

‘Twas good, I’ve found that liars help

to separate the wheat from the chaff,

to leave aside the years of the locust,

rejoice in Grace and once again laugh!

CaPoWriMo 28 – THE FOOL v 2.0

by Ampat Varghese Varghese on Tuesday, 26 April 2011

Again, as in a dull dream

I wander back to ancient

corridors and staircases,

Möbius strip like turning,

meandering looping in or

out of what is or only was.


Or, like an abandoned boat

leaking, filling up with salty

waters, left to sink, bob up

and down on folly’s ripples;

memories that emasculate

or laugh as the seabed calls.

Or, like the despised mendicant

I meet my students, so-called,

friends, liars, lovers,  serpents

who softly kiss and slyly strike

me wrong; I face or end reality.

Why do I crave the old pattern?

It is closer to me like a woman

one has slept with every night;

or do I fear to leave the known

habit for the food of assassins?

CaPoWriMo 28 – THE FOOL

by Ampat Varghese Varghese on Tuesday, 26 April 2011

Again, as in a dull dream

I wander back to ancient

corridors and staircases,

Möbius strip like turning,

meandering looping in or

out of what is or only was.


Or, like an abandoned boat

leaking, filling up with salty

waters, left to sink, bob up

and down on folly’s ripples;

memories that emasculate

or laugh as the seabed calls.

Or, like the despised mendicant

I meet my students, so-called,

friends, liars, lovers,  serpents

who softly kiss and slyly strike

me wrong; I face or end reality.

Why do I crave the old pattern?

It is closer to me like a woman

one has slept with every night;

or do I fear to leave the known

habit for the food of assassins?

Irresponsibility, wine, women,

song, art, dance, these clichés

are the sick illusions I swim in;

such honey won’t allow for loss

to be counted or valued as gain.


by Ampat Varghese Varghese on Monday, 25 April 2011

On a post-Easter morning,

the post-coital exhaustion

lies over the robots turning

back to the routine torment

of shops, offices or kitchens.

The Passion drug consumed,

the Groom exits graciously

from the cave, the shadows

are gone and waiting outside

are the women, all of whom

coalesce into one holy Bride.

The cars are screeching again

in hot streets, also blue buses,

the devil’s wild autorickshaws

and coolies are buzzing around

carrying the daily burdens laid

on them by stupid bourgeoisie.

In the midst of this hullabaloo,

somewhere, footsteps of light

ripple away to a mountain-top

or Galilean shore,  the speaking

is finished except,  now or then,

“Follow me, do not cling to me”

is what he gently tries to say if

they wonder why He’s different.


by Ampat Varghese Varghese on Sunday, 24 April 2011

He is asleep within these cold walls

with guards keen to lock death in.

The Disciples hide in fearful caves,

afraid of the naked Night reigning.

Clots cover the serrated wounds,

bandages remould a carved body.

White cakes to brown and to black,

a Stone seals out the calls of Owls.

Black cobras dance happily mating,

bright peacocks strut proud blindly.

The Breath of Time is stilled in Space.

It’s not yet dawn; two mad women

break into this Garden of Spectres.

The Angel of God has now appeared

in the crack of a sudden earthquake.

All the soldiers have fled, and ethereal

is the Flaming that shames the sunlight.

Subtler still, a Countenance is renewed

again as Stranger to the ones He knew.

Then, with His soft uttering of her empty

name: “Mary”, He fills that sorrowing one.

“Rabboni!” See what a Pharisee can’t hear!

“Risen. He lives!” she runs to tell the others.


by Ampat Varghese Varghese on Saturday, 23 April 2011 

Why am I laid low,

handed over

to fallen Lucifer?

I do not want

the light he brings.

Why does nothing

flourish in my

once filled quiver?

I do not want

now even good things.

Why am I suspended

in a glass prison,

in formaldehyde, floating?

I do not want

to taste the salt springs.

Why do my friends

and lovers abandon

me, unaccepting?

I do not want

this pain, their cursing.

Why does the Sun

who favors all,

gift me scorching?

I do not want

this slow dehydrating.

Why do You preserve

me in a damp tomb

among the happy living?

I do not want

a reason for this breathing.

Why does the Moon

of gentle evenings

madness to me bring?

I do not want

loneliness of suffering.

Why have You shut 

me in as nothing,

is this my sacral offering?

I do not want

to not love you, O Sting!


by Ampat Varghese Varghese on Friday, 22 April 2011 
A glass sky, hurt by Cries

on another Good Friday,

has shattered into tears.

The earth licks His Blood,

Semen of the Kingdom.

All are, all is, forgiven.

And  our Mother Mary

stands there, praying,

fertilizing barrenness.

The Devil is


Fear is


Arimathea carefully

places shredded

Bread upon

a granite Bed.

The Gash prepared

in a Vale of Sorrows,

quiet in the Mount.

Mary watches o’er

the Son interred

in a Second Womb.

Startled, she feels

again, labor pain,

second thrusting

of the stone hips,

three days hence.

CaPoWriMo 23 – Lenten Psalm 10 – PARCHMENT

by Ampat Varghese Varghese on Thursday, 21 April 2011

There’s always the Morning

light I no longer desire

to wake up to the sadness,

I wish the lids were sealed

for good , plucked out the

black lashes afore they fall.

There’s also birds chirping,

voices I no longer desire

to hear for they’re saying

“It’s good to be wakening

to a red dawn”, but these

hymns serve a Last Supper.

There is too an Upper Room,

a space I no longer desire

to endure with the ‘Friends’,

I leave them to give them

my myth to live on , “I am”

the Bread who’s cruel, torn,

the Blood for Martyrs, born.

There is a Vessel of Water

or Wine I no longer desire,

a Towel too, for your feet

I wash, now let the thorns

mar countenance,  I write

crimson on souls beaten

as lovers, my parchment.

CaPoWriMo 22 – THE GAP

by Ampat Varghese Varghese on Tuesday, 19 April 2011 

There’s the hidden


carefully placed


the stones

of every two


I pen.

Is it the same with you?

If we cannot dredge

these diamonds

from the sea,

we must continue

to part

at every


question mark

exclamation mark

semi colon





What is it

that lies

not in the ink

or the blood

that forges



poems, prose

or novel plays

and is but

the light




by Ampat Varghese Varghese on Thursday, 21 April 2011

Five days left to the next Easter Morn,

blow hard a ne’er-dying Harvest Horn.

I count the days with five cold senses

yearning beyond the ritual pretenses.

A crafty cynical cacophony of Religions

deludes daily as noisy vengeful Floods.


Waves rumble in these seething streets,

revolutions rain in as ravings and sleet.


A Third Eye from the East lasers Death;

can sufferings put out the Eye of God?


Everywhere I see the abuse of Messias

is well-arranged by fury of Intelligence.


What is this Faith beyond my Doubting?

Who is this I will meet as I am fasting?

It is not Krishna, Buddha, Paramahamsa,

it’s not Mahavira, Ramana, the Sai Baba,

nor Swami Vivekananda or Sri Aurobindo,

the ashen Mystics, Fascists, Nationalists,

not the suave Deepak Chopra or Amma,

a Baba Ramdev or Sri Sri Ravi Shankar.

Nor is it those lesser gods we name:

Sex, Drugs, Mammon, Power, Fame.

It’s not Shamanism, Tensegrity, Tao,

Santeria, Raelism, Wicca, Cult Cargo.

It’s the All-Mystery:  Who will remain

the One risen from his earthen grave?

I don’t metaphorize Him, spiritualize,

or humanize, that way lies more Lies.

Don’t try to comprehend Resurrection,

be still,  stay patient for the Gift given.

If you dare not touch the Pierced Side

or Palms, be amazed, come alongside.

To touch or see or know or feel at once

the Phoenix-Sphinx is to become alone.

Will I steal of the Tree of Knowledge to Sin

or know Rapture, Faith, Hope, Love within?

I can ride His Wind-breath, be re-purposed

and carved into a Rock of Offence, blessed.

CaPoWriMo 21 – Lenten Psalm 9 – ROCK OF OFFENSE

by Ampat Varghese Varghese on Tuesday, 19 April 2011 

Five days left for this next Easter,

e’er the never-dying harvest fest.

I count each day with five senses,

striving to rise beyond a pretense.

Everywhere, the abuse of Messias

is arranged to please Intelligence.


Outside, the cacophony of Religion

rolls in like the next erasing Flood.

Walk down angry, seething streets,

revolutions, grope on without Light.

The Third Eye always sends out Fire,

can suffering put out the Eye of God?

What is it I believe though doubting?

Who is it I will meet as I am fasting?

It’s not Krishna, Buddha or Mahavira,

not Ramakrishna, Ramana, Sai Baba.

It’s not Vivekananda or Aurobindo,

Mystics, Fascists and Nationalists.

It’s not Deepak Chopra or the Amma,

Baba Ramdev or Sri Sri Ravi Shankar.

It’s not those lesser gods we name:

Sex, Drugs, Mammon, Power, Fame.

It’s not Shamanism, Tensegrity, Tao,

Santeria, Raelism, Wicca, Cult Cargo.

It’s what happened:  Who will remain

that One arisen from a deadly grave?

I don’t metaphorize Him, spiritualize,

or humanize, that way lies more Lies.

Don’t try to comprehend Resurrection,

be still,  stay patient for the Gift given.

If you dare not touch the Pierced Side

or Palms, be amazed or come beside.

I have touched and seen and known

the Phoenix-Sphinx, leave else alone.

I can see clearly now, Knowledge is Sin,

Faith, Hope, Love is what I need within.

I ride His Wind-breath, I am re-purposed,

carved into the Rock of Offence, blessed.


by Ampat Varghese Varghese on Tuesday, 19 April 2011 at 00:01

this is how i pen my poem

look at her sideways out of a cuckoo’s crimson iris

let her know you glide over every pore of her body

do not leave out jot or tittle the right punctuations

if she returns your glance never let your eyes drop

if she stares back defiantly stare down her breasts

if they heave unnerved  stretch out a raspy tongue

lick her into shape in the waiting air walking up bold

slide in beside her offer her coffee but divert to pub

you want inebriation so she is flows staggers slurs

take her home after pat down the sofa sit close hug

let your lap cushion her head pierce eyes hypnotize

stroke hair kiss cheeks whisper nothings in her ear

grown-ups love teen songs seduce lips stroke hips

breathe upon her lashes swollen with wanting lines

unbutton her shirt kiss the hills stroke the valleys,

open her enter seed  await the dawn flush the sun

or moon will rise to fill blue grey orange black skies

light inscriptions set fire to stars make them moan

she is inscribed


by Ampat Varghese Varghese on Monday, 18 April 2011 

you tremble my lips tremolo a chant trip not words but moans terrorize my open mouth

tremor in itself tastes of fellatio swamps walk me through spice trees talk your tongue in mine

wring it swirl it together bock in hot cup liquid licorice lilting and lulling snakes flickering out twin in

you thin fin twisting testing fingernails  brailling scarred walls feel secret ridges combing

hazemaze of greying hairwear bare breasts birthmark o few have entered taken prisoners in

bend finger-bars breaking in scattering touch credits spent on ribbed-prison let me in skin of lead

you slam puck-nipples this way  twist windspeed trilling hot buttons piercings

trial error trick unlocking safe codes fragile tips dipping caress squeezing heart-lobes jibbing

no easy entry turbine arteries pumping ripe flood over about through bloodcrazed roused screaming

you wet trail slugly stairways to inny blow valley tornado warnings raising cain tumescence

innocence allowance excess get to inner chambers waiting lava shoot air gaspsplash red to milk

kiss fishes jumping wildly wet shores drying glass eyes flashing fright dimming drowsing night-light

CaPoWriMo 18 – Lenten Psalm 8 – A-DVAITA

by Ampat Varghese Varghese on Sunday, 17 April 2011 

I am

the demolisher of dvaita

the tripartite 

the fragmented

of imagined controversy

or impotent contest

of the Plague of Choice

of the False Free Will

Light or Darkness

Moon or Sun

Carrot or Stick

Heaven or Hell

(what about Purgatory?)

Good or Evil

Right or Wrong

Yes or No

(what about the Maybe/If?)

God or Satan

Void or Fullness

Man or Woman

(what about the Transvestite?)

Earth or Sky

(what about the Sea?)

Paradise or Hades

Beast or Bird

Insect or Reptile

(what about the Amphibian?)

Sattva or Tamas or Rajas

Information or Knowledge or Wisdom

Foolish or Clever or Idiotic

Chosen or Damned

Jew or Gentile

Christian or Pagan

(what about the Mystic?)

Sheep or Goat

Lamb or Wolf

Horse or Donkey

Lion or Dragon

Fox or Dog

Snake or Mongoose

Raven or Dove

Unclean or Clean

Pure or Impure

Star or Dust

Plus or Minus

Saved or Lost

Angel or Demon

Multiply or Divide

Condemn or Justify

Judge or Redeem

Destroy or Build

Marry or Divorce

Patriarchy or Matriarchy

Cover or Reveal

Priest or Laity

Rule or Serve

Michael or Lucifer

Asura or Deva

Cain or Abel

Brahmin or Kshatriya

Ram or Ravana

Abraham or Lot

Pandava or Kaurava

Shudra or Vaishya

“King or Beggar

Rich or Poor

(That’s your lot? Don’t ask for More?)

Sarah or Hagar

Isaac or Ishmael

Esau or Jacob

Judah or Benjamin

(And what about Joseph?)

Moses or Pharaoh

Arjuna or Karna

Saul or David

John or Judas

Kunti or Madri

Mary or Martha

Krishna or Buddha

Ramana or Sri Sri

(And what about Amma?)

Right or Wrong

Cross or Sword

Air or Earth

Fire or Water

(And what about Ether?)

Ayodhya or Mecca

Mosque or Temple

Babylon or Zion

(and what about the Third Heaven?)

Body or Soul

Thought or Word

Idea or Action

(And what about Pneuma?)

Law or Lawlessnes

Christ or Anti-Christ

Man or Ubermensch

(Yes, what about Hitler?)

The Temple is savaged

No stone remains upon another

A miserable Wailing Wall stands

on all sides, bark the dogs of war

The Scythe reaps what is sown

Empty the Crystal Cup

The Host is Red

Lift it Up

Smash it in the Fireplace

Let the Pillars fall

Roll away the Rock

Put away the Dagger

Unbrick the Middle Wall of Partition

The Barbed Wire melts

The Boundaries dissolve

The Binaries are blown 

The Veil is torn

Yeshua Adonai!


CaPoWriMo 17 – Lenten Psalm 7 – CAUSE

by Ampat Varghese Varghese on Saturday, 16 April 2011

because I keep losing the thread,  they stick me with the rusting poisoned Needles of Tradition

because I did not listen well enough in my mother’s womb, I am eviscerated in the Chakravyuha

because I am reborn on fearsome Minos, Ariadne saves me the second time with a spider’s strings

because I am weak with fasting that does not destroy my flesh, I am despised and rejected by saints

because I am gentle like a lamb ready for the knife and fire, they will not take up their yoke of poetry

because I dream of keeping a pet monkey or sexing cotton candy, they nail me to the Wheel of Dharma

because I raise the dead from their narcotized sleep, they give me Vinegar of Sloth to drink

because I rally strange women to my pierced side, they finalize me in the cast of leaden shoes

because I rage with eyes of alabaster fire, they stick glowing lit cigarettes in my porcelain pupils

because I want to gather all as One as it was in beginning, they advice me to service priests

because I scorn their scriptures, idols of gold, stone temples, they value me at forty and thirty

because I don’t need eyes to see in the dark, they entomb me in the rich man’s rock cemetery

because I shout from the rooftops what is always given me to speak, they piss on my words of prayer

because I know they hear what they don’t want to know, they bind me and commit me to solitary

because I command the demons and they obey me, they burn me at a stake for my selfless sorcery

because I say the winds and the seas are stilled at my voice, they tie millstones around my neck of ivory

because I cry out as I sink and there is none to help, I whisper songs into the prostitute ear, the panting deer

because I kiss the sky its birds animals earth trees streams fish insects, I will not fear for they are with me

because I am driven into the desert for my cloven hooves, I retire to the cave of earthquake, fire, thunder

because the one I seek lives not in the ugly city, here I will wait keening for the still small voice I yet can hear


by Ampat Varghese Varghese on Friday, 15 April 2011

How many times I have seen

the approaching black cloud

that foretells my sad rushing

to the end of the pier, watch

another ship departing slowly.

aiming for the sharp horizon’s

edge, but it is myself that I’ll

find falling off a treacherous

line into the awaiting waters.

One never knew that waters

can be so cold, opening maw

to swallow, white chills cut in

like shark teeth, pulled under

I learn that these ill currents

have always rejoiced to take

in victims of the disease Love.

Now, in my ears I hear cries

of whorls and wavelets who

entwine themselves around

my arms and neck and feet

making me drowsy and how

I feel black eels slip-slidingly

circle around my hip, thighs,

above me the light is closing

into a white hole, a goodbye.

Yet another ship is departing

for unknown shores, a siren

signals the farewell, my bag

is packed too, I have placed

heavy millstones in it, a wind

tugs at my feet, the boards

tilt, caving into the distance,

a speck dissolves and it falls

spinning into the sea tunnels

forgetting the seagulls’ calls.

CaPoWriMo 15 – Lenten Psalm 6 – THE CURVE

by Ampat Varghese Varghese on Thursday, 14 April 2011

The Face in the mirror

mourns the Original.

Seek , you will be found.

G-d is a Curve, never

the straight line.

Praise is a boomerang.

Hymns are the songs

of ever-distance.

Gratitude is a Lamb.

Cherubim have wings,

clipped and cowering.

The Halo kills.

The idols are mute,

golden cripples.

Temples are poison.

The Dove is fluttering,

catch, eat the wind.

Water washes blood.

The Bull’s thick organ

is ready to bellow.

The drumming begins.

A stone altar is reeking,

incense  is shrieking.

Prayer is agony.

The fish swim as crowds

in courtyards of dust.

Worship is cacophony.

Bring me a cord of whips;

lash tables, tablets.

Receive the Comforter.

The Face in the Mirror,

that all-seeing Dog.

You are found, seek.

CaPoWriMo 14 – FIVE HIGH

by Ampat Varghese Varghese on Wednesday, 13 April 2011

Her thin finger,

moving across

his white face

at ant’s pace,

frames space.

Her palm waving

earnest greeting

returns to slap

him, tattooing

a hot trace.

Her toe digging

into his heel

under a table

is the horse,

unlocked stable.

His eye roaming

below the belt

without sound

to the mound,

pupils dilating.

Her lips closing

upon his lotus

makes the frog

leap up alarmed,

how charming!


by Ampat Varghese Varghese on Tuesday, 12 April 2011

“I would rehearse a tale of love which I heard from Diotima of Mantineia, a woman wise in this and in many other kinds of knowledge … She was my instructress in the art of love, and I shall repeat to you what she said to me … My Grace is sufficient for Thee.”

I have learnt the Arcane, the being Human,

from the Woman who has taught me living.

First, She resembled those curious Shells

I picked up on my Beaches of Existence.

When I placed them as kisses to my ears,

I elided the movements of many births.

I rise as Poseidon from happy splashing in Her

green womb, She shapes Gods, Queens, Kings.

Also, know how She turns babies into princes

or, angry, blunts proud arrows of the wicked.

I’ve spied on Her washing Her Broken Ones

on full breasts blushing with Milk of Healing.

She always stands beside me as Mother, Wife,

Sister, Companion-Priestess of the Tree of Life.

Of All, the Wife is the Trunk most mysterious,

Her leaves are smiles and branches kindness.

Wife, first, and then Mother, are celestial doors,

you enter in or go out, and yet, space to return.

She who knows me has vestal strength in Her arms

to keep my wondering bowels from deathly harms.

She also comes as Witch and Bitch, the Blight,

weak, a dying wick that seeks Light by Night.

She slides in like a snake bringing shy embraces

as cakes or hissing tainted words dark-tongued.

She comes with Her gift and, having given, looks

to fulfill others whose damp hearths must be lit.

This Holy Warrior Woman is the Ancient Goddess

without whose generosity all Men would be less.

To Her secret groves and rites I’ve won access,

Anitha-Diotima’s veiled eyes bring what’s blest.

Wisest Wisdom is hid in a Rib for Jesus, Solomon,

Socrates, worship Her in both Whore and Virgin.

CaPoWriMo 12 – Lenten Psalm 5 – DYSMAS

by Ampat Varghese Varghese on Monday, 11 April 2011

I was travelling from holiest Jerusalem

to broken Jericho. Why? I do not know.

I was not merchant or priest, only that

ill Outcast, with no place else to reach

but the ruins of old Babylon, the Harlot.

I was travelling across Hindustan, seas,

from holiest Ayodhya to little Serendib,

I was not Sita or Hanuman, but only the

ill Outcast, with no place left to reach

but an Isle of Demons kept for torching.

I was travelling from envied Greece

to holy Ilium not hoping to catch a

spurious glance from Helen or bind

her to my side, I was not Achilles or

Agamemnon, but a poor galley-slave.

Wherever I travelled, I found no place

to rest my head, even the trees under

which I laid my burden of lower nature

withered with the stench of my being,

I’m scorned by e’en the dung of beasts.

Travelling to Jericho, stately robbers

plundered me of the nothing I have

and, angry, left me wounded, busted

the shit out of me, left this bouquet

of shit for burial in a Valley of Bones.

In a trireme’s belly, always hungry,

they broke the muscles of my back

with whips and carved black circles

around my ankles, taught me pain,

a river of blood flows to join Jordan.

Following Ravana, I saw the monkey

leap over the walls with flaming tail

to bring to a scorching end the tale

of a proud race and the lies of Aryas

could prevail, I was blinded thence.

There it was I put on the perennial

garment of the Shudra, Samaritan,

Chandala, Harijan, the shit-basket

carrier for Brahmin, Levite, Purohit,

Pandit; they shut the doors on me,

the verdict was “Less than a Beast”.

Blind, broken, beaten, kicked, sick,

a green-skinned man cut in pieces

is left on the shifting desert sands

fertilized by this urine and sweat,

he does not have anyone to help.

Have you heard the cry of a victim

rise from the crack in the ground?

Do you know that justice delayed

is justice denied? Is not your hand

shortened that it no longer saves?

Then I heard the anklets of a Man

who stooped by to give me drink,

but before a kiss reached my lips,

the mad mob of Jews and Romans

stoned, spat on, whipped, splayed

him naked nailed to a dead fig tree,

and I was on his right, in Paradise.

CaPoWriMo 11 – Lenten Psalm 4 – THE DAGGER

by Ampat Varghese Varghese on Sunday, 10 April 2011

I was falling, twirling,

a peppered leaf

plucked away

from the Living Tree,

wafted on a breeze

of twilit death

in the scented Garden

burning down,

immolating angels.

I was drifting, a dimming

spark to a sullen earth,

melting wisely with moist

soil and sigh of worms,

entering mud sticky

with my fragile love

sinking into caverns,

valleys of bruised ice

or merging crimson flows

within a secret smithy.

I am boiled, hammered

set adrift on lava

currents rolling,

drawing me

to Seven Stations

and the Sword

plunged hungry

into the orifice

of this jailed planet.

I am beaten, made

hard as the One,

that flesh-stripped

Skeleton of Shame.

Here I am with a Friend,

with this rejected Alien

within whose Forehead

dwells Zion’s daemons

wearing silvery studs

and thorns of praise

upon their pierced

twinkling tongues,

singing of torment.

I falter in these sweet

chambers of despair,

yet a different Love

forges us anew,

this anvil shapes

a primordial




from depths

in fire-attire.

I will slaughter

the coward





who too soon





before the race

was run

my demise.

CaPoWriMo 10 – Lenten Psalm 3 – DESERT FIRE

by Ampat Varghese Varghese on Sunday, 10 April 2011

What did I come looking for? Sand,

rocks, vultures, caverns, heights,

blistering feet, shrinking cheeks,

a halt in the white Valley of Bones.

Fasting sharpens the Teeth of Desire,

keeps the senses alive through Lent.

A spirit laughs to see all withering,

dying to touch. Another breathes

upon it all. Exhale, inhale, a living

dog’s more hope than a dead lion.

Fasting sharpens the Teeth of Desire,

keeps the senses alive through Lent.

So what went you out into this wild

to see? Depriving the senses is but

another way of feeling. Have you

entered worlds beyond those five?

Fasting sharpens the Teeth of Desire,

keeps the senses alive through Lent.

Fight excess with excess. A Devil

accelerates sensual fevers, sin;

the Sun dries juices, parches skin

and materializes the Light within.


by Ampat Varghese Varghese on Friday, 08 April 2011

Tonight, I know what it feels like to be writing poetry;

I’m the cavity between Kama and Smara, the Word

flows backwards in search of an erogenous beginning.

Tonight, I am that fertile woman who thrusts upwards,

lets it flow in, or thrusts outwards, lets it burst out,

ones, twins, triplets, sextuplets, the birth of breaths.

Tonight, I touch the muscles that pump like black sugar

ants, crossing the lines not meant to be crossed,

climbing mountains, carrying their tiny white burdens.

Tonight I see what my poems will be, a stronger flame

than the cold-hearted stars or the flashing fireflies,

to burn curious children who want to catch butterflies.

Tonight, I also desecrate the mighty enemies of poetry,

the wretches who scribble vain short stories or paint

so badly that which can’t be spelt in five secret words.

Tonight, too, on desolate sidewalks in yellow-pane light

slink those sewer writers, rebels, cock-suckers, pricks

who make cabals, collectives, networks, news, money.

Tonight, I piss a fountain on all their dream manuscripts,

their cavorting, prostituting, merchandising, posing,

their imagining they’re Baudelaire, Verlaine, Genet, lies!

Tonight, I know what it feels like to be writing poetry,

I am the illicit Pleasure that leaves no ever-Memory,

a man no longer knowing anything, without or within.

Tonight, I am that fertile woman who thrusts upwards,

allows minarets to rise up within her filled with hymns,

codes, couplets, triplets, sonnets, the death of deaths.

CaPoWriMo 8 – HOURI

by Ampat Varghese Varghese on Friday, 08 April 2011

If you meet her on the perilous path

lift her veil of words, see the thorns

stuck in her eyes bloodying the sight.

Look under her black bleak silk hood,

hidden stripes, a stretch-lined belly,

Chance destroys people, burns lovers.

Lift her skirt, Chance changes all things,

peacocks into pigmies and the ravens

into doves, sperm and egg into babies.

Walk with her a mile, be not covetous

and you will get it without the asking,

Chance can bring you surprising wings.

Walk with her a second mile, just smile

when the road disappears from under

the feet with utter frightening thunder.

Then it’s time to leave her for another

who will know you, in turn, as veiled,

Chance would have become your sister.

CaPoWriMo 7 – Lenten Psalm 2PRAYER OF THE DEFEATED

by Ampat Varghese Varghese on Thursday, 07 April 2011

I am praying, bowing down defeated

in this City of Exile, chained to granite

posts, wry Fate, a dead or dying Tree,

opens the Eyes of Loss to destruction,

lives expunged in this sewer of malls,

race, caste, language, gender, Chaos

forging with iron fists, collective soul.

I’m praying it won’t be exterminated

with its syphilitic animals so unaware

of the Cleansing  to come, fever, hate,

burning buildings, void lakes or hungry

feet tripping into the alienating abyss

of the dung-drunk Queens of the Night

waiting. skirts up, calling, “Come, nigh,

to spit into my moist hot Jezebel nest!”

I am praying my years of Prison Life

will not sing the Hymn of Anathema

to the Builders of the Phallic Towers,

to the Principalities, Thrones, Powers

that trade in the souls of  sick sheep,

to silver droppings of  the Merchants

of Uncool and Mammon and Moloch.

Must I be praying fire and brimstone

over this virile City of False Apostles,

Vikings who believe Jesus was Hindu

Yogi who struggled with Yoni depths,

an Ant in the honey pot or toilet bowl

of sin, Salmon swimming against that

current, breaking out as Tears Sweat

Blood, elevate a crumpling Manhood

to That I Am That Thou Art Om Amen

Satan Cultic Hid Gateway to Godhood?

I am praying I won’t desire like Lot

a place in the gate with the Elders

of a city ready for its Nuclear Death,

and a sure etching of human bones

upon the walls of gated communes

built upon the cries of my Outcasts.

I’m praying that the proud grandeur

of the flower markets and flyovers,

the overhead rail-paths to nowhere,

the procession of daily wage slaves,

my hawkers, drifters, hype wizards,

their despair, desperation, distress,

won’t be silent vacuum apparitions,

the end of a Vanity Fair that’s selling

me and carnal you as slaves or calling

you and I from City of Exile to my Zion.

CaPoWriMo 6 – LentenPsalm 1 – THE HAND

by Ampat Varghese Varghese on Wednesday, 06 April 2011

You have watched me throughout a Night

and the searching Lamp dampens a drizzle

of thoughts that devour my peace like fire,

yet,  flames do not desiccate my branches,

here where there is no stink of Hades’ ink,

there I have walked, run, slept on choking

sands, but I’ll conquer these inscape lands?

Have you felt the Invisible smooth your brow

while you, abandoned, slept the deeper sleep,

with breezes wafting roseate scent of Sharon?

Yes, the bats were forced from worry-caves

and the sly rats, flies, wasps and snakes left

shamed by the sweetness of unknown Light.

Have you woken up ashamed of all you were

in the knowing that you’ve only been carried

always upon a Bosom that has been the Rest,

where the Milk of Goodness flows for a child

or Honey of Mercy mends my broken knees?

Yea, a sound witness to it will be in my mouth

overflowing with the laughter of hidden pools.

Am I awake now? Stay with me, caressing hand

to wipe this blackened sweat from weary brow;

even without that secret touch you brought, I

will arise to  follow your whisper in the waves,

in the sparrow’s chirp, in the darkening glades,

here where a Mystery’s lullaby soothes, burns

with concern, you join that Below with Above.

Here I am! Drown me in pure Ferment of Love.

CaPoWriMo 5 – The Buffalo Waltz

by Ampat Varghese Varghese on Tuesday, 05 April 2011

Don’t reply if my questions sneak into you silent and seductive as the Buffalo Waltz,

Just smile at the slow drifting Danube as I did one neon-hued warm night in drunken Linz,

Just smile at the flow of music between me, the slippery Stadtverkstadt and the Museum Lentos,

Tiptoeing to swaying jazz tones red blue-green violet orange stepping-stones on weaving glass faces.

Don’t reply if my head is anyways split into twenty different visual erotic channels;

Just smile because this Mystery of Mysteries is not there to be resolved or complicated;

Just smile like a sleeping kitten, leave the known to captivate more than the unknown, grin on!

There are no borders no boundaries no fences, atmosphere stratosphere Luna sphere, catch splintered lights!

Don’t reply if I argue about spiritual-ecological awareness, green theologies, I don’t!

Just smile because you are wondering what toothpaste I use, Close-Up, Colgate or Neem;

Just smile for between my laundry and the extraordinary, I am a viral sneeze in a difficult squeeze,

That’s fine too, isn’t it, if it is any good? It means someone is thinking of you and you’re dangerous, germinating!

Don’t reply if you are exotic fur on a celebrity shoulder or parochial stir-crazy, I am spherical;

Just smile, for you and I can be traveling like sabre-toothed mammoths with Buddha’s memories;

Just smile standing like a lingam oiled with possibilities of future reconstructs, like the bull in the machine,

I am free to laud Rimbaud or Beckett and turn away from Tagore, Rumi, Gibran, that kind of spiritual flea.

Don’t reply if you come from the opposite pole, the content has always been an Other,

Just smile for drifting apart is the purpose of ice floes, the cadence across bodies, the meltdown after,

Just smile for the terms are always love, hate, anger, politics, society, rules, regulations, crumpled bed sheets,

Form or formless, the damned species continues to become, popping out of bellies as already fading starlings.

Don’t reply if you believe there are enough sonnets written, let’s jive with or without them,

Just smile and circulate through capillaries, veins, arteries, or clog all the sewers with criminal static,

Just smile with each electric shock that mutes disease and scars shamans of healing astral therapies,

Life forms, emerges from air, in stagnant pools, short-nosed rivulets, lesser-known springs or violet ocean sprays.

Don’t reply if you are Dharmic, that most subtle capitalist of the spirit, mythical re-mixer and materialist shit,

Just smile as you rake in the souls and hide them as gold shekels, shackled to dread stone of ancient temples,

Just smile through this Satsang, use this raag to crap over the Dalits and Shudras, burn their huts to the ground,

This is the heinous Hypnos that glues together all cultures, behead the sacred slokas of self-righteous caste vultures.

Don’t reply if you are working with theories of rationalization and accounting for it all in the spiritual;

Just smile for all I am repeating like a parrot is an Upanishadic principle for the merchants and illusionists,

Just smile and chant courageously “Neti, Neti” however wonderful or right, something feels wrong, not this nor that,

It’s pragmatic, it is sensual will, give it material shape on the tongue, in breath, between lips, spirit collapses logic.

CaPoWriMo 4 – Criminal Love

by Ampat Varghese Varghese on Monday, 04 April 2011

The Love of God

has crippled me,

put my joints

out of alignment.

How, or why,

do I want

the ruddy

Silent One,


above waters?

Once, walking

upon the Lake

I fantasied it

Sea, but now

even if I stood

upright, my

broken knees

would betray:

let him sink.

There is ever

none to help

in affliction,

and yet:



by Ampat Varghese Varghese on Sunday, 03 April 2011

This piece of impropriety is not a poem the way you want it.

This impulse to excrete is not image or text or test or clown.

This probability of failure is not about content, form, author.

This outstretched wand is not meant to bring about embrace.

This laser machine is not a separation of light from darkness.

This exposed midriff is not a naked oracle of keen prophecy.

This cradle of cacophony is not a child of obsession or art.

This abandoned passion is not crying out or communication.

This orphaned mendicant is not your host, hole, nest, den.

This night-time pillar is not a lost pilgrim or radiation cloud.

This carving in the air is not the handiwork of a human stone.

This leg of mutton is not for freezing, stealing, selling, eating.

This affront to language is not of tradition, translation, trading.

This flame-thrower is not looking for plunder, rape, war, attrition.

This bamboo cage is not an encampment for the song of God.

This casting of a spell is not the play of demons, winds, warlocks.

This sifting symphony is not the din of sand nor trial of rain.

This coloured capsule is not pleasure for sullen aches, wounds.

This cloven hoof is not looking for the maiden hand of friendship.

This third poem is manifest as blood of thorns on a beaten brow.

This three-fold music is. Or, maybe. Or, is not. Myrhhic.

CaPoWriMo 2 – BYE BODY

by Ampat Varghese Varghese on Saturday, 02 April 2011


myBody youBody loveBody yourBody weBody oneBody twoBody threeBody themBody emBody

someBody usBody thusBody everBody everyBody heatBody corpseBody bloodBody snowBody

hateBody touchBody lickBody smellBody inBody outBody holoBody noBody norBody nighBody

nailBody neverBody noughtBody niceBody nakedBody nullBody nukeBody ninBody neuroBody

withBody whichBody whatBody whoBody wallBody wineBody weaveBody waterBody wellBody

sickBody clashBody counterBody sexBody femBody penBody holeBody wholeBody rotBody riskBody

raceBody colourBody rimBody edgeBody laughBody birdBody catBody hisBody herBody howBody

howdyBody inBody outBody sideBody upBody downBody runBody sitBody rollBody rockBody

pusBody peaBody peeBody fuckBody suckBody prickBody cuntBody titBody assBody poreBody

cueBody hideBody nipBody nonBody nilBody moBody smartBody meatBody hookBody hotBody

dataBody greenBody geeBody wheeBody whineBody honeyBody potBody clickBody caveBody

rainBody flowerBody mudBody riverBody sandBody lionBody lambBody snakeBody ratBody owlBody

eyeBody earBody antBody itchBody dwellBody shellBody touchBody lapBody thrustBody flayBody mapBody killBody cutBody spitBody mindBody spiritBody clockBody fleaBody dogsBody hoaxBody

slaveBody salveBody toneBody treeBody tongueBody twigBody sapBody thiefBody fangBody saintBody

isisBody buddhaBody blueBody bowBody shamanBody surroBody  subtleBody sheathBody crossBody

bloodBody ransomBody wormBody deadBody darkBody dungBody

dragonBody deepBody

sleepBody graveBody

riseBody riseBody riseBody

doughBody leavenBody

riseBody raisedBody

riseBody rousedBody

newBody nowBody loveBody faithBody

hopeBody oneBody skyBody raptureBody

biBody dimBody byeBody doneBody dumBody




April 1, 2011

Don’t you see? There are no living poets any more.

Hello, manicured Mules who desire to be flogged

by whips of “poetry exercises”!  The Mule-trainer

is a Black Guard. How ill-designed, these Satanic

daily challenges, camaraderie, provocation, shit!!

I hear you calling out “Aii, Aiii, Aiii”. The Sterile Herd.

You shove pricks, goads up their arse to scatter them

across barren highways. The Grand Asinine. O Mules,

march as traffic. So privileged, to be milling together!

Circular Mule-motion, bray grey Vehicles of No-song!

Don’t you see? Are there no living poets anymore?

The silver barbed wire stretches into a wilderness.

Fences, cells, trenches. The passionless need a prod

or a push that comes to shove; the Way of the Mule

is clear only when metal  thorn or whip its skin splits.

4 comments on “CaPoWriMo – 30 Poems in April

  • @4.Criminal love: the first stanza intrigues right away. Though poetry is said to be mostly about form, this first line makes one think about content… a contradiction in terms, yet making sense, as being faithful to our soul often seems to create a handicap. Just a quick look at artists lives tells enough… When it feels the soul is sinking, Presence is still there, under the currents too, nice finish!

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