Poems — Jalaj Gangwar
Contents
The following is a collection of poems by Jalaj Gangwar, written across various periods. The work ranges in mode from lyric confession to political allegory, united by a recurring preoccupation with loss, freedom, and the quiet machinery of power. Several poems draw on blues and folk idioms; others operate in a more plainspoken philosophical register.
1. She's gone [edit]
A spare blues elegy set in stillness — the car that won't move, the radio that won't stop.
She's gone, the door closed like a final chord, I'm parked beneath the broken signs of night. This dusty ride, it don't move anymore, But I wait, I burn in the faded light. The radio hums, but it ain't enough, Every song just bleeds her name. I light another smoke, pretend I'm tough, But the silence don't play that game.
2. On a windy day [edit]
A walk through concrete streets toward a memory of green — and the child who hasn't yet learned it will burn.
On a sunny windy day, I move along the streets of concrete, Wishing for a time I see the grass so green, Move forward I do Weeds in the child's hand And musician's band too Oh that's nature's scent The sky breaks in blue Whispering of the return The little child has so lil clue To Grow up and see the green burn How poor I move forward back to my concrete Leaving the child's innocence This is the life of blossom blue Oh love, that's the nature's true scent
3. Life of ease [edit]
An offer of presence, and the paradox of having everything except the one thing.
When your people break your heart When then you go down Look in my direction I'll be 'round n I'll bound As we live a life of ease We have everything we want The sky blue and the sea of green But i don't have you Yet you have me
4. In my dusty ride [edit]
A poem of generous release — watching someone leave, wishing them the world rather than keeping them.
You've got your shoes on the open road, And I've nothing but time to fold The sky is wide, your eyes are sure, And I am just standing at the door. I won't stop you, I never could, But if you look back—maybe I stood. The way is yours, the wind, the light, the morning fields, the quiet night. If joy is yours, then that's enough—but I'll still wait in this dust. Will find you in one rusty night In my life's dusty ride. If i cant have you, You shall Have the world instead—I'll sing you gone and will sleep instead.
5. The life is yours [edit]
A meditation on determinism dressed as devotion — the speaker is ground, sound, and flame beneath another's apparent freedom.
The life is yours The way is yours But the way you move is mine You choose the door I carve the frame You scream in fire I lit the flame The life is yours The choice is yours But the path is mine You run Yet i am the ground You speak But i am the sound So live your life Take your path divine But remember Every step is still mine So dance, rebel, pretend to be free but each rebellion bows quietly to me Because in the end In silence or in sign No matter you where You are mine
6. It should be [edit]
A quiet reckoning with the gap between the man one meant to be and the man one is becoming.
I tried what I could be A man of life, a man of words I should be Yet the road bends and breaks beneath my feet, Silent battles and dreams incomplete. I hold my thoughts where words might stray, A heart that's steady, though led astray. Still, I strive through night and day, To be the man I meant to say.
7. Sympathy for the devil [edit]
A political dramatic monologue in the tradition of Browning and the Rolling Stones — power speaks in the first person, calmly, explaining itself.
Please allow me to introduce myself— I wear a suit. I wear a tie. I speak in rooms where people clap while my people learn how to die. I drink to peace as borders bleed, smoke rings curl when countries tear. Ash falls soft on polished tables, no one smells it in the air. They cheer me standing. They cheer me calm. Empires rise like castles of sand— held together by borrowed hands. I didn't build them with fire or fear. I built them with applause. Crowds are easy— they clap first, they ask later why the ground is gone. You asked for friends. I gave you enemies. Friends ask questions. Enemies keep you busy. You wanted meaning. I gave you flags. You wanted peace. I gave you work. Someone has to hold the rifle. Someone has to dig the grave. Someone has to clean the ruins so I can sound brave. My hands never touch the chains, yet somehow they all fit. You work in cuffs and call it duty, I work in rum and call it wit. They say I love civilization— God, I lived it, breathed it, spoke it well. But people? No, no— people are tools, and tools don't flourish if you plan to use them. Because tell me— if everyone lived freely, who would fight the wars? If everyone ate well, who would work the mines? If everyone thought clearly, who would clap? I don't shout. I reassure. I don't threaten. I explain. That's how evil ages gracefully— it learns better grammar. They call me strong. They call me necessary. They call me history's answer to chaos. I call myself practical. So clap for the suit. Clap for the tie. Clap for the man who looks composed while the world is divided. I'll raise my glass. You raise your children into my wars. Please don't misunderstand me— I didn't steal your freedom. I asked you to trade it for comfort and a rhythm to follow. And you did. On beat. On cue. Pleased to meet you. You know my face. You've always known my voice. I'm the devil you elected, the order you applauded, the calm explanation for why someone else must suffer. And listen— the clapping hasn't stopped.
8. Sticks and stones [edit]
A revision of the familiar proverb — words are found to do what stones could not, working inward in the hours of solitude.
Sticks and stones may break my bones but not my heart — or so I said the day I learned that words leave wounds that don't show up in shades of red. They sink below the skin and wait, they find the hour you're most alone, and do the work that sticks could not, and crack what no stone ever broke.