dear readers,
just back from a night at the club. basement bhangra, one of the longest running, most diverse parties in nyc. what i like about basement is that 90% of the club is dancing. 20% is dancing with abandon. and 5% are touching god.
tonight was brick outside, im talking single digits people (constant winter mental refrain: why did anyone settle here goddammit, go west, go west!). but inside was a full smile, top prowl, shoulder arms stretched towards india. deep breath in, deep breath out, towards india. dj rekha, founder and resident on the wheels, was, in her words, “fresh from the motherland,” just back from india, and it was palpable in the air. the dancers that packed the floor, and floored the stage, were full smiles copernicus charted in the air with palms poised just so, insistent shouts, we punctuate our dances with calls, fuck it, i just have to write this in poem.
basement bhangra
swagger like this/your whole work day been dissed
dismissed/ but tonight we reign
kings and queens at the club
subtle hints/bollywood glints at the club
dancers spin tales of love
he’s telling me i’m killing him
i’m telling him he should be so blessed
and we both both under float float
spin chest of gold win
tonight we win
*
my homegirl from the bay
who paints walls with spray
moved down the way
i said come to the club wit me
she said okay
oil in her hair
eyes on the mirror
new era ella on the speaker
we in the car
it takes a long time to warm up
so she and her american spirit suck each other
while i’m jammin to
journey
dont stop believin
and we roll
manhattan bridge skyline sparkling
rock star parking
man this country takes its toll
at least i aint in no real fucking trouble
and its basement bhangra/ desi folks so fine
you seein double
trouble on the dancefloor
she got him goin/im on stage/they not knowin
dont/stop/believin
*
ptsd
come play with me
come say to me
what happened so we
can shake it off
like a knee jerk cough
reaction contraction breathing isnt an option
moving feels like coffin
ptsd
come dance with me
so shhhhh, so shhhhh
it’ll be okay
because tonight we breath
free
just you and me
under the blanket of bass
desi girl songs and a place
here in this world to dance
ptsd
*
british accent
so thick i just nodded and pranced
white track jacket and nicely sagged pants
stage edge love ledge
black braid on one shoulder
chest hot solder
wrist like this
hai hai
mai mar jownga!
heart heaves
music weaves this amazing sky
full of sun and stars
hood accent
so clipped i just shivered and dipped
low to the black button down flow
he says he’ll trade me shirts
i got my steelers gold on
badmaash, bhooth, flirt
*
brown swan
fight a peacock for blue dawn
pluck a song
nose rose
petal strewn dancefloor
feather vamp more
tramp whore cardinal sin
red robin wind
summer kin
brown skin
swan
*
thats a lil taste of basement for you. stay tuned for more on culture and politics in nyc from yours truly, political poet.
peace,
r.singh
2 Comments
February 11, 2009 at 2:20 pm
I love reading your poems Roopa. Even though I’m happy back here in the homeland I still like to live the New York experiences vicariously through others writings. I feel so sad I never made it to basement bhangra! Keep it up!
February 11, 2009 at 4:58 pm
ben! thank you for tuning in all the way from israel. you writing about your experiences?