The Poet’s Son Under Police Custody & Lock-Up & Being Interrogated Poem by Bijay Kant Dubey

The poet’s son under police custody and lock-up,
And the poet lost in writing poetry,
Under the ganja of poesy,
Smoking and puffing in
And sending out the relief,
Enjoying himself and life,
Reading it and the world,
The ways of it,
Marking God’s world
And man’s life.

While on the other hand when the wife asked to listen to his poetry,
She refusing to hear it,
As for the hearth and its burning fire,
Rice, cereals to be cleaned
And milk to be procured,
She thinking about and lost in
All these
And the poet saheb lost into the reflections
And dreams of his own,
As for how to dwell far, farther and farther
And to be a poet.

But that the rumour has spread that the poet’s son in jail,
His intoxication is breaking
And coming to the ground,
Just like a helicopter landed
And he thinking about as what to do
When it is late,
How to educate him,
The wife quarrelling with,
Trying to fling his notes and scribbled papers,
Threatening to put them into fire
If his son is not brought from
Or bailed out.

The poet thinking within as to how to handle the case,
Trying to get the support of poets friends
But they far from,
Just the pen friends
And here real friends, the ground duty friends are needed,
The police, the thief and the pleader,
Walking hand in hand, glove in glove,
Flanked by one another,
One hand over the shoulder of another,
I mean three friends’ help,
How to get them
Without money in the purse
As something-something has to be
In addition to his going with the poetry books
And gifting of these to them
As they understand poetry not,
But the poetry of money?

The poet under pressure now, as how to deal with the situation,
The clamour and commotion of it,
The son, whom taught he not,
In jail
Under some sections and clause and sub-clauses,
Just the opposite of the father,
Drinks, dances and spends life merrily
With the mobile phone and musical sets,
The market the centre of his frequent visit and life-style,
The films the things of instruction,
With nothing in the head,
How to bail him out and bring home
To create a nuisance for his poetry
As if he remains in jail, he will be able to write many more poems
For humanity’s sake
And if he comes home,
The son will not give any space as for keeping books,
But say you, how can a son be kept,
Has to be bailed out?

What to do, how to execute the plan, the poet thinking within,
Much of his money spent on poetry,
Creative poetry and an experimentation with it,
Its success and failure,
Curtailing the things to be purchased
For the house,
Yet to be for the wife and children,
But without getting it signed by her, I manged
After signing for the spouse's column myself
And endorsing it as thus
For the declaration by the employee,
Without informing the nominee I drawing money
To spend on pen, paper and poetry,
Curtailing even the son's expenses for education
And that why the wife saying,
You will be, will be a scholar
And your son will remain foolish, foolish,
A Kalidas, sitting on the branch of the same tree
And chopping it
To be scolded later on by his scholarly wife
To be expelled out to read and get schooled
To write texts,
So the villagerly wife with the broomstick
And the burnt earthen bowl threatening the poet
And his poetry
As for bailing out her son and bringing home,
Whose fault is this,
Today he calls his son naughty and notorious,
But who made him, made him
As he did not, did not teach his son even for a single day,
Just for poetry' sake?

Now see you, see you yourself and your fault,
The fault of not educating your son,
Keeping him foolish,
Looking after not properly,
Now what, what will the world say,
The father turned into a scholar,
A poet, I mean a bard of the king's court
But his son a fool,
A roamer, a drinker, a loafer,
A fool not, but a great fool,
The scholar poet's son a fool not, great fool,
The world will say it,
I shall not,
None, none but you kept him,
You plotted to keep him illiterate
As you have me,
Showing me not even the lantern of education,
The adult education and literacy programme
As for keeping me inside, under the veil,
As they will see me and my face
And you will keep seeing others, other beautiful women,
You will yourself get introduced to,
But I cannot,
Which is but your tactics,
A tactics of yours,
Your selfishness,
Your mean selfishness,
Which youare, I am not,
The wife lecturing and the poet hearing
As a simple student of hers.