Tag Archives: shiva

roopstar songs on youtube: new videos from the politicalpoet

dear readers,

i have a passion for music, and i come from a long line of singers. if you don’t know, now you know. here are a couple cuts i’ve been working on over here in kerela, south india. i grew up on hip hop and indian spirituals. so i riff off both of those styles when i sing or rap. enjoy. and remember, get your paper ladies, don’t let los tigres distract you. xoxoxo.

dedicated to my shadow:

this one goes out to my global south folks. may the dope cultural connection between south america, the caribbean, and india only continue to grow through scholarship and art.

leave those youtube comments!

peace,
roopstar
the politicalpoet

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fast: poems to shiv ji and parvati

dear readers,

today i have completed 10 days of fasting, no on solid foods, no on processed anything, no on added sugars, yes on natural juicing, yes on a daily cup of hot milk. why did i fast? to get closer to the gods within. sounds cheese ball, right? but it works. yesterday, the tenth day of may and the tenth day of my fast, i could just pray. prism, kaleidoscope, sun rays to the dome, meditation, yoga, poetry, the practices i call home. i wrote these poems, for shiv ji and parvathi. late last night i got a call from moms. a blessed, rare, lucid conversation. i told her my poems. she told me that monday is shiv ji ka din. alignment!

for parvathi
what beauty is she
brown skinned neck
subdivided by black
waterfalls of hair
glance at her lips if you dare
there is gold inlay
within her cheeks
and oh, when she speaks.

for shiv ji
shiva
all i want
to do
is pray to you
play for you
the melody
of my thighs

and just because trick luv da kids, you know i have to include a couple videos. the first is maula mera, from the film anwar. i fucking adore this song and video, light eyed hegemony and everything. from 5:16 though, it’s next level, gets me loose.

the second is a song called try a little tenderness, by otis redding. this is a live version, he kills it, so tenderly. which is, i imagine, how the gods love each other. with fire and tender, both.

stay tuned for more,
roopa singh
poet-at-law

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kush: on “harold and kumar”

dear readers,

yikes.

can i let you in on a secret? its kinda heavy being a political poet. all that newspaper print/black and white lines/lies/truths/placing myself time and again in the key witness booth, can get in the way of kicking back, taking it easy. im from india, plus i grew up in southern cali so, genetically, i love to *chillax.*  not sure where the skill escaped me, or us as a country.

word on the domestic street is: everyone is taking everything too seriously. or, in the alternative: no one gives a fuck about anything or anyone but themselves.

its about as easy to be balanced in america as it is to balance on heels running for the subway your mind on the signs that say “miss the train, not your step!”

so in the midst of the tragic cyclone in burma, george bush blaming india for the rising price of food (but our diet’s mainly grains and pulses dude, chillax!), recession, and more horrific shit, i’m taking a break this post, to chillax.

sort of.

chillaxing for me is like pulling the sleeping beauty up from her slumber, lazarus up from his caved-in- grave, but dear readers, i will attempt balance for you.

cuz its getting warm and, shit, tank tops, or banyaan’s (as i can’t help but call them), are back in high rotation.

chillaxing has officially begun.

may 6, 2008

kush: on “harold and kumar

went running through the prospect park meadow yesterday, got good and sweaty, pulled out my journal and wrote in the sun sitting on the pillars at 15th street, watched these kids of all colors skateboarding and tousling across the way, got some street chinese food, and generally shot the shit with a homie from back when till 7:30pm, curtain time for “harold and kumar.”

as an indian, its my duty to share with you that we, indian’s, hindooostanis (as the british egregiously spelled us), believe we invented many pivotal elements of humankind. the zero, for example. for that matter, all maths (plural). as in, “my raju humaisha excells at math(s)!” most importantly, we invented: kush. look it up.  kush is our fucking word.

folks generally say that “kush” means happy.  which is almost total bullshit.  here’s my take.

kush means happy like fresh green leaves by the millions on each and every tree. kush means happy like its the top of the world and the air your breathing is himalya clean, and all you’ve ever been, is this face looking childlike up at the sky of your soul. kush means joyous in every golden cell/internal/dividing/deep well. kush means happy like the souls of suited club goers turned mosher’s by whim of the dj/she play/backbone beats/got them hips loose/mouths dangling/9-5ers/angling all week/for this thursday night/dancefloor treat.

so, like, that’s how kush means, “happy,” to me.

mmm, kush, i know its possible to lead a life, even in this day and age, and be kush.

there’s this one priceless scene in harold and kumar where the two of them light up some “alabama kush” with our current president, king george bush the second.

i liked the *hell* out of that scene.

the smoke logged scene took place in baby bush’s log cabin play den, pool table, ping pong, dart board with oasama bin laden’s (rip) face in the middle, stuffed midget bear by the overstuffed brown leather couch set.  i like the scene because it dogged bush, dissed him, i mean, Dawged Him like the audience watched as kumar gives baby bush the cojones to call daddy bush and tell daddy bush and all his bossy friends to “fuck off!” hangs up the phone and sits back looking real, real proud.

we’re talking major diss here, Major. but that’s not the only reason why i liked the scene.

i liked it cuz the way they were kicking it with the Prez-Geezy, well, it humanized the poor sucker a bit.  made me feel like, you know, if he was in rotation for the blunt, i wouldn’t skip him, feel me?

every crew got they sucka. and baby bush is no doubt the sucka in his.

more on harold and kumar, and more balance and chillax-ness to come, from political poet, naxal.

peace,

N

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