Munna and Munni

Here are the Munna-Munni poems that I wrote for The Accidental Elephant. They were scattered all over my documents folder and I thought that I should gather them together and put them all in one word document. Good intention of the day done, I further thought that putting them up on my blog would keep them nice and safe in one little post. So here they are. I intend writing lots more as soon as I have the time!

PS: Tried uploading the illustrations that I'd made for the poems, but couldn't. They got all wonky. (:'-(
***
Munni’s Word Adventure

Munni hid one word in her palm
and another in her ear.
The act made her feel calm,
made her feel free from fear.

The words were like moist warm balm
she was ready for good cheer.
She kept away from peeping toms,
did not let them come near

Word in palm said, “Read me, ma’am.”
Word in ear was his dear peer.
She didn’t know they were bad cons
tricking folk year after year.

She oped her palm with aplomb;
tipped her ear, ran like a deer.
The words burst like time bombs
and lanced her like sugar spears.

***
A Munni Limerick

There was a munni from dilli.
She loved her sweet, silly billi.
She made him her model.
He became a doodle.
Poor, frilly billi from dilli.

***
Munna watches the spider

Munna, why do you sit there?
Ma, I am watching the spider.
Munna, what is it doing?
Ma, a web it is spinning.

Come in now, it is cold outside.
A mo’ Ma, the web’s got so wide.
Come in now, don’t make me angry.
Wait, Ma, lemme see why ’tis hungry.

What?! Why, that’s such a dumb question!
But, Ma, why so much aggression?
Boy, everybody has to eat.
Ma, the fly is so wrapped and beat.

Munna, do you want your own supper?
Ma, the web’s caught a grasshopper!

***
Munni’s Friendship Quest

Munni wanted a friend,
a friend with whom to play.
Friends were just a new trend.
She wanted one; no delay.

She talked to the parrot.
“Will give you a chilli.
Will you play with me?”
Parrot wanted a carrot.
“Let me out of this cage,”
He said, “Will play with you.
Will stick to you like glue.”

Munni gave him a chilli
(she was wise for her age)
and opened the cage door.
The parrot up did soar
and said, “Bye bye, Munni.”

She talked to the cat.
“Will give you some nice milk
Will you play with me?”
Cat was slightly batty.
Knew one could sink in milk.
She wanted a fat rat,
but her Ma had taught her:
Always accept free offers.
And said she, “Yes, I will.”

Munni gave her a bowl,
fresh and white and wholesome
milk. Munni sucked her thumb
as kitty licked-lapped. Yum!
It was good for her soul,
this nice milk and bread crumbs.

“Will you play?” Asked Munni.
“I have to catch a rat.”
Said kitty,
“Excuse me, I’m sorry.”

Munni now was saddened.
Her friendship-wish deadened.
She climbed the mango tree,
saw a spider and hurt
her knee. Pulled up her skirt,
dangled from a small branch,
made up her words: crunch-
munch-tinsy-mincy-scrunch
friend-mend-bend-punch-blench-clunch.

***
Introducing: Munni, The Word-maker

Munni is a word-maker.
Faker, maker, word-shaker.
She says: A word is jadoo.
Pooh and mew and flew and shoe.
She says: I can make them up.
Zup, zoy, zow, rubbadubdub.

***
Introducing: Munna, The Curious

Munna is so curious
makes his mother furious
she says it’s injurious
unhealthy and spurious.

Can make you ambidextrous
also acrimonious.
“Stay away, Munna. Remain
uncurious.”

Munna remains curious
Ambidextrous, ambiguous
Says he, “May die in the process
But I remain curious.”

***
Munni and Munna: I

It was an iffy butty day
We were told to play and to pray
Such a grey ha-hey today
Munni ko Munna did betray

***

Proof

...that I've been seminaring.

Don’t ask me who she is. I have no idea. I found the lines of her face exciting. I think a caricaturist thrives on ‘faults’. The more frown furrows, crow’s feet, laughter lines, dark circles I see, the more enthusiastic I get. My fingers begin to itch when I see a face that is animated by the creases of life.

study of a studio portrait

*
forms stick
meet split in trapped tights
and a known frown

i flash
become noun-fact
flatten
into an event where
indigo-yellow is bent
into spent pixels

see
that sepia pose
that inherited stance
wintered and scanned

grown to a
now
like shoelaces tied by unknown hands

StatCounter Sonnet

Free, reliable, plus invisible;
Wondrous are thy ways, charming Statcounter.
A simple code, so configurable
Creates unseen, delightful encounters.

Here’s a visitor from the Philippines;
And there is one sprightly tourist from Greece.
They hop-skip around and the fun begins.
Callers! May your tribe increase. Grow, don’t cease!

These guests on her page keep her e’er guessing
Will they like her fractals, read her new verse?
Will they fly, will they become repeating?
Or curse and send her a perverse blog-hearse?

They come googling “elephant-sex”. Alack!
They attack the hack, turn her blue and black!

*

All bloggers know the importance of Hit Counters. I myself use three (!) and prefer StatCounter over the other two. They are delightfully addictive and tell you a lot about your visitors; how they navigate, what they read, what tempts them, what does not. It seems wicked sometimes; it’s like spying on your friends. Some months back, fears of a code conscientiously tracking my visits made me terrified of visiting people’s blogs. My visits will be counted, measured, analysed; my IP address, browser type, screen resolution memorised! The horror of it!

I discovered reading through feeds soon enough, but it isn’t as fun as actually visiting someone’s blog. During a conversation with a friend several months back, we discussed the possibility of Hit Counters being equivalent to surveillance. Do these innocuous ways of reading visitor activity turn us into spies?

woman/sign: III

Yes, yes, I am pushing,
throwing out, gulping
in air. Push

push these women away
from me.

Remove this paint-
smell. It swells in my throat like
fat coats of oil.

His hands made
me feel those white
faces. I had to fill the surfaces
with velvet, lace, frowning eyelashes.
And fingers.
Always
the fingers
in the flickering
night for that stamp of his
while I grew weary by the lamp.
I was erased. A ghost
destroyed while breaking water.

Father, father
I cannot see
the grain-shade for the rock

Mary, my darling,
look at this burnt umber.
Use this camelhair
Wound this canvas with the knife.
It does not need brushes.
*

Written for Marietta Robusti Tintoretto

woman/sign: II

Written for this self-portrait by Alice Neel

*
this then is the body
i will become
i will be
a web
of blue lines
and hold a brush in a bony hand
and look at you seer
i will look at you
to see if my glassy
stare with one
quirky eyebrow my lazy
breasts resting
on my belly my rouged cheeks my
uncompromising underarms
will worry you
enough
to look away
and look
again

woman/sign: I

amrita    those women
of yours like lumps of meat
drying in the sun    eyes that look
nowhere    perhaps sidelongingly to see
inwards outwards
and again    nowhere

they sit shrouded
thin    wrists upturned    in ochres and rusts and dull
lines of stiffness

whereas you burst out of midnight
blue    lips a killing red
right arm a well-fed V    wrist in defiant beads
and a finger pointing to your breasts

*

 (update: put in this link because it has many examples of her work)