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1The argumentMarch 31, 2011The argument here seemed interminable.The blue hills were a mere haze in the trees,I mean each of them, the hills, and the treesCrow-caws at dawn, train-sounds from afarThe wakeup song of God in early morning.A mere kitsch of a song will not release usFrom the tyranny of this gridlocked mind,The sport in the gallery, the dark glassesOn pretty noses, bare shoulders against redA gaggle of crazy market men wild with joyAt the pantomimes of other people’s playGiant projectors with phantoms of playersComing from the world’s end with red ballsAs if they run you run, and when they squirmIn their pants, in your living room’s cornerYou squirm in your hot pants, red and dead.It is this thought, under our felt caps, freshFrom the warm sunshine of other people’s time.The argument goes on endlessly in filled hallsIn play-grounds like a salivary thread flowingFrom the silky spider-work in our home corners.In our argument we conquer the world in cup.
2EditMarch 30, 2011This here picture I have producedIn a visual of an early morning lightWhen pain needed balm in the backOf nerve-ends tautness of the nightAnd editing blues of much saturation.You and I were trying to edit detailEmotion that cut thinking at its back.The morning needlessly brought poetry.Poetry once produced cannot be editedBecause it is there in your front lobe.But I cannot seem to edit all that detailFrom this night of life when it occurred.I cannot edit the colour of my dreamsNor change the depth of field in them.My picture seems shorn of all depthAs I am caught fishing in the fish-eye.I want to know who is editing all thisBefore morning hand of night visionIt is the time of happen, the horoscopeThe blazing Saturn planet that ruled lifeAnd many unexpected things happened
3In the belly at most hours in the day.It is in the belly again that it happenedOf tiny cells that grew without permissionIn a splurge of the body, behind the backAnd an inside has to go of a bag of beings.Twenty five times blue rays have to touchAs if it is the morning sun on the patio.I cannot seem to edit the noise in the bellyThe fears rising in the depths of its bluesThe little blue powder, its magnificent rays.
4DissolvingMarch 29, 2011I look at the possibility seminally presentIn the current decay and body to dissolveLike an electric light-bulb that disappearsIn the bright sunlight as the day breaks.My body’s light shall dissolve in momentsInto the general daylight of a sunny dayAnd as the day burns I shall slowly dissolveWith the pain of light’s merger into light.You know the merger of light in the darkIs easy on our body and feels like a breezeBut the merger of light in light feels likeGetting back into the claustrophobic spaceFrom where we had all emerged years ago.We had come there from nothing and willDissolve in the space of nothing from there.
5Fear of flyingMarch 28, 2011My flights must go on uninterruptedPast the white clouds and air pocketsWhen the pilot announces turbulence.I make my worship of planet SaturnWith a ring of blazing fire in the sky.Back home, I worship the Saturn godIn oil and flowers, turmeric and milk.On the land my flights crash on housesBut there is a near-chance they crashOn slithering snakes of the deep forest.They can crash on real flying sky-birdsThough it is too much of a coincidence.I make that happen when I choose to.It is my dream; I can make it realistic.My dreams are stories made in the pillow.They are made of bile, acid and belly-fearI have got them from her belly and his skull.
7The flyMarch 27, 2011We do not know it when we lie dead in the grassAs the spring breeze would gently play with our hair.Others do not know that they are dead from usThough they are alive, up and about on their feet.The fly on our flowers is perhaps alive on us tooWhen it would buzz about us as if we are aliveWhen our ears are now bright yellow marigolds.The fly is blissfully unaware that it is dead from us.
8SynopsisMarch 26, 2011A running commentary examines my lifeIn thread and bare, while it is going on liveWithin me, in this business of life, with noneFrom outside peering in my curious window,So I have the satisfaction of an examined life.I am living my life entirely real-time, you see.I do not like visitors to look in the peep-holeWhen I am knitting eye-brows humorouslyExamining my life by extended commentary.Right now I fear others not worrying about meWhile I am grey in chair and crumpled sheets.I worry about paucity of metaphors for the day,As I think of others not peering in my window.I worry about the synopsis, my examined life.
9PushMarch 25, 2011A little push is all we can think about.A little shove, friend, is all that is neededTo push the leaky boat into blue waters.So a decrepit eighty year old poet says,In the margins, nicely to the night skyHis pale moon remembering all night.The boat is on anchor in house balconyHaving come adrift in the last season’s sea.The tree’s shadows love it in the balcony.The timbers are still there in sea-cracksWith the wood scent of the forest intact.Their chambers have nice wooden planksThat will make warm embers this winter.(Taking off on At Eighty by Edwin Morgan (1920-2010) , theScottish poet whose boat got the push in the last season)
10SunsetMarch 24, 2011Sunset comes hastily before volumes of trafficIn the road of you-and-me fist- fights of chaosWhere we fight pitched night battles in a warSuch as in the confused Peloppenesian war .In the car the chilly fellow is hot on film heroesIn scraps of badly accented radio gags like onesThe driver man will enjoy and you sure say no.Our drivers have eclectic tastes in film musicWhere everyone seems to flow as if yesterday.This sun comes in their eyes like a dust particle.The driver makes noises from his nose to the road.His mobile phone rings to come home before sun.My monument must already be in its russet hues.But many cars and traffic policemen are in between.My sun has already sunk to the depths of belly.
11Women in the morningMarch 23, 2011On the road before their houses are womenIn turquoise and blue, their heads and backBent with earth- sweeping and water sprinklingThe way elephants do in the morning forest.Their mothers-in-law had done it in their time.Like them the earth smelled of their bodies.And the children wait for school in uniformsFor yellow buses to stop before wet patchesCareful not to tread on rice powder designsTheir mothers had made on their wet patches.Their designs are pretty but highly transientOnly to be eaten by sparrows of the morning.The sparrows have become heavy in stomachsOf rice powder eating from beauty designs.But the sparrows are now not there in mirrors.In the afternoons they were pecking in mirrorsAt their sworn enemies in the mirrors of womenWhen they combed oiled plaits for the evening.The birds have perhaps gone of morning sicknessOr of far too many cell phone calls in their air.The women love their afternoon gossip ,you see.Luckily mothers-in-law are now gone for good,
12Like sparrows that have gone from the mirrors.
13The edgeMarch 21, 2011Contemplating quietly on the edgeWe may not now tip over nor do anything.Actually the breeze we are waiting forWill come only by the fall of our nightWhen noisy crickets will wake up to makeTheir weird noises under the inky sky.We are now not on the edge of thought.The precise word we are looking forDoes not come easily nor bring peaceIn a stomach upset with understanding.Our body is too full of understandingIn the snake-folds of a sleeping hoseNestled safely in an almond-like case.The crank case breaks with winter frostBut only when understanding vanishesThrough the chinks in its woven plates.When our understanding vanishes we stare,In eyes of nothing, at the nothing of wall.We will then teeter on the edge of thought.Your words will then sound as soft poetryLike a breeze in our understanding treeMeaningless but high art in its bleakness.Their syllables will drop softly in our mindsLike the midnight breeze in the pipal tree.
14We shall then hear you entirely by your lipsAnd make poetry words directly from them.
15SpontaneousMarch 20, 2011We are now merely being spontaneous.We chance upon phosphorous volcanoes;Wear sunglasses at the burning on the fringe.These volcanoes combust spontaneously.Their lines form smooth monument stepsFlowing from noon prayers in white shirtsDescending in a series of steps to povertyAnd plastic bags flying about in the breeze.It is the dust in the air, the smooth powderOf the earth that flies in our face like leaves.We wear duly our sun-clothes on our facesAs if we are girls riding to school on mopedsSpontaneously looking good for the marriage.We wear our nondescript masks that make usLook like others who wear nondescript masksWhich hardly hide nondescript souls under.We are spontaneous in our poetry of the night.Our words burst like birds studded in night treesThat suddenly erupt from them at distant gunshotsOr mountain-breaking sounds of the nearby sky.
17The super-moonMarch 20, 2011In the evening the moon quietly climbed our roofTo peer in our skylight from his perch on the tiles.We almost thought he would jump into our kitchenAnd flood our mosaic floor with his dapper light.When we slurped our porridge with hungry tonguesIt sounded so different, this deep slurp from throat.The porridge tasted funny, a tad sweet on the sideBut somewhat like the broth we daily give our cowsIn their sheds with the moonlight sweetening its taste.Luckily we keep our bedroom windows shut upstairsOne can imagine what he could do with our minds.(On 19th March, 2011(today) ,we witnessed the super-moon,closest to the earth in 18 years)
18Note-takingMarch 19, 2011When you take notes you are not youBut a would-be gray non-conformist guyWearing pantaloons into early seventies,The ones you reach way before the leg.You collect all your notes in the shirt pocketTo discard them when you reach home.Or wear them like polka dots on your shirtTo hide the existence of small holes under.When you take notes be adequately surrealYou cannot make sense of life otherwise.
19Lizards in dreamsMarch 18, 2011Lizards often come in dreams at dawnAs some snakes do in midnight dreams.Here I stand on the top of a black rockAnd drop a tiny pebble on the lizardThat sways his head up and down at meFrom his perch in a recess of the rock.He seems calling me down from his sky.I am calling him down to my own earth.My pebble hits him but he flies toward meAs lizards often do in our atavistic past,On the brown plains, dotted with shrubsIn steppes that stretch to the green hills.That was my dream at dawn but I wonderWhat I was doing in the lizard’s dream.
20SmellsMarch 17, 2011We were trying to re-create experiences in wordsOf our walks, balancing on narrow embankments,Through the standing paddy rice, in morning light.Our words are stated experiences created first timeSemantically but later by invoking smells of things.We remember sitting on a cloth chair in the shadowOf a vegetable creeper that had flung green snakesIn our faces striking our noses with their green smell.We had grandmother’s wet cloth drying in the sunThat had smelt of grandmother and afternoon sun.When it was later hung on the wall peg in a bundleIt had smelt of grandmother and the iron of the peg.In the sanctum’s anteroom, God’s clothes smelledOf camphor and wilted jasmines and burnt oil lamps.The priest’s smile smelled of holy water and camphor.His words spoken in high baritone smelled of God.
21FamiliarMarch 17, 2011All that seems familiar on the golden beachWhere the wind blows in the sand like madAnd a wind child moves in waves, like waterWith fun people riding them up and down.There are shacks on the hot sands for peopleAnxious for experience, for history’s sake,When history is the only future of a couple.Their gold coins glisten at the bottom of the sea.They bravely hang there in a glider in the sun.Other people go about in beery stomachsWe are on the lookout for some sun and foodA little honey on the side and some moon.
22Black leavesMarch 16, 2011Look out the window to see black leavesOf cold argument, in the middle of a road.Usually green they turn black at nightIn the blood coursing in your black veins,Wearing the silk-soft colour of a black nightThe inky back of a night, out of the moonOnly this fortnight ago, held by the stars.Woman wears a black flowing argumentOf a black night, this night and this day.Her golden pendant flickers like the starsIn the black night of argument, in white neck.In the train we ate ourselves a black forestOf night, that turned green leaves blackAs the train cut through the black nightWith a white surgeon’s light on its forehead.Tea leaves stayed black at the night’s bottom.
23LightMarch 15, 2011What came up was light, a mere tonal wordWe were searching for the real thing, you see,In the blind alley, making slow way for our eyesIn the living bats that fluttered against light.We had to make do with a mini-mobile light.A foul gutter loomed here in the corner of smell.Some grey rats could crop up there, their tailsTracing lines of black gutter water on the roadAnd of the dead ones that smelled bad in the holes.These creatures smell bad when recently dead.History’s dead smell nice in their alleyways.Daylight fills their spaces in the foundationsOf houses that once had people strutting aboutAmong copper-red brick walls, with cold nichesThat had oil lamps burning late into the night.Their clothes smelt nicely of naphthalene ballsWhen they had differently dressed men in them.Their walls are not here, nor the flickering lampsIt is our space that has swallowed all their light.A pity it is only the smells that have remained.
24Shoe- lacesMarch 14, 2011Each time he bends down to tie his shoe-lacesHe sees an inverted world, of a clumsy blue skySupervalently fallen on a sprawling globe-earthSo he does not know the blue sky from the earth.When he looks up he finds breasts loomingLike a Pacific isle tsunami on the plains of carsBrown-mud and paper houses, people and flotsam.His world-view gets distorted of caring mothersAnd nubile daughters with overflowing breasts.The lace tying may have triggered such a view.But it is the girls’ eyes that stare at him of passingHis fantasies played out daily in their noon shadows.His clumsiness does not lie in their overflowingnessBut in the topsy-turvy of a dizzy earth-sky sceneLargely drawn from the tube of the small screen.
25RelativeMarch 14, 2011She is not blood-relative but of fleshIn the dark night she is my dark fleshAnd my bones and marrow of hunger.An ontology of her bones clearly placesMy own on top of her incumbent bones.Beyond the rail track her bones live.Her blood traces a train’s light beamIn the pitch dark of my own midnight.There I wait her outside for the creakOf a broken string cot that has saggedOf many heavy bodies and light pockets.Sorry I forget the name of the bones.
26The heatMarch 13, 2011This heat may be unwelcome on young skinBut not on old eyes where it becomes pure silver,A home to dense shadows that emerge slowlyFrom vaporous layers hovering on a hill stream.Here in the trees it is green and joy and twigsQuiet birds in the noon and their day-dreaming.In the temple, afternoons are heavy with sleep.Bare feet hop-skip from one hot tile to anotherAs if they are doing a brisk trot of a fire dance.The neem tree sheds flowers of powdered heatOffering a bitter foretaste of its summer fruit.
27IconoclastsMarch 13, 2011The crowds fascinate us in their latent wisdom.Lately they have turned rebels for a cause.They are now our iconoclasts on the lake side.Our lake is now blooming heads like lotuses.The torsos they left behind recite rebel poetry.(Crowds have recently vandalised statues of history’s great men ofculture installed on the lakefront in our city)
28SoftMarch 12, 2011Soon we went about our poet’s businessIn the wooded paths of human historyTrying to tread softly on delicate heartsIn some ancient history of poetry kind.We saw some turquoise tourist braceletsGlass bangles that clinked in a poet’s storyAnd the shadows they cast on brown faces.It was golden evening always and sun set.The mountains sat there immobile and blueTheir egos went home in the white clouds.Even as we wrote poetry we had to laughWhile not unduly muttering under breath.Our silken pajamas were yet to come backFrom the roof up where they were drying.In the meantime we had to whisper softlyOur cumulative secrets into the winter air.Beyond the parapet the sparrows hoppedAnd chirped incessantly in the morning sunAs if they were ripe golden brown wheatThat waved heads softly in the grass breeze.The sparrows here under the window heavedTheir brown bodies as if they were playing
29Music, in our computer, from the snow hillsAnd yellow pipal leaves fell softly on the wind.Our temples were soft in the outlines of pagodasWhere they scraped the sky ignoring the wind.As we looked up at the top of God’s golden pillarWe looked softly at the contours of our own life.Everything came home as if it was in our motherWhere it had happened, in our beginnings in her.
30MovementMarch 10, 2011We have come to movement at last.Actually our inertia was inherent in usIn our present incarnations of tyresThat have lost stomach for the road.Hung by a fiber rope on the highwayOur path remained where we were,As indicators to passing motoristsOf tyre service available at the spot.A passing wind enables us to pretendOur continued lateral movements.
31SnowMarch 09, 2011At sixty, it matters little if you have not slowly climbedThe snow hills to look a frozen phallus god in the eye.You have now all the time for your thawed hypothesesLike had I or not become or done this and this, then.The snowy beard on your face flows in white clouds.But of little use is looking precipitously into the abyssOnly to incur a plaster cast on legs like snow in flakes.Had not my granddad happened then in hoar and frostWould be less flawed in the vast frozen wastes of time.
32In situMarch 08, 2011We reveal ourselves well, in the night.Our cell growth had taken place, in situAnd mostly localized behind our tummy.We sure love words, Latin and medical.Our surgeons came in white and greenDiscussing the in situ growth in us as ifIt was a pretty Ming vase found in situWhere they dug up for ancient cultures.The surgeons use mostly medical epithetsBut their scalpels seem like sharp flintsDiscovered in their ancient excavations.We reveal ourselves mostly, in the nightOur fears come from dug up ground levelsWhere they lie buried and in situ for yearsAnd threaten to turn invasive at night.
33PrayerMarch 07, 2011We stood in a whiff of fragranceOf him that stood behind the curtains.His water tasted sweet and fragrantWhen taken to the lips in a slurp.We thought of him in her destinyAs it unfolded for her in white wallsIn a wilted flower within her fleshWhich once housed tiny beings.It was a mere thought, this fear for lifeAn existential question, a silent prayer.
34HeapsMarch 07, 2011From our ground levels we went on to heapsOf vehicular chaos, of racing men and carsAmong heaps of crawling people on the road.Their eyes shone unduly wet with money.Some were anxious to reach dizzy money heapsIn cars wedged between trucks of bearded driversThat spewed black smoke from their behinds.Government bosses looked tall on their paper heaps.Citizens walked like writhing bundles of caterpillarsThat were waiting for decisions to transform themInto full-fledged butterflies of the finest of colors.
35WaitingMarch 06, 2011I stand in the computer luminously waiting.I am looking for the flash, the glistening wordLying in wait in the dark folds of the night.On the other side of the world is a womanHer womanhood starkly waiting in a white roomTo be dispossessed by the cruelty of a body.A mature night is waiting for beauty-dawnFrom its orange memories of yesterday’s duskWhen over tea we were sitting on a string cotOn the highway and waited for the sun to sink.
36Moon beingsMarch 05, 2011We live, a little on the other side of the moon,In a pallid half-disc of the moon in the day sky.We say a little consequently, but withdraw more.Our poems tantalise beings ,from outer ridgeTheir words tease from its marble concavity.
37Shadows in the eveningMarch 05, 2011The old woman’s skin squeals fitfully.She oozes water and fear now and thenAnd gets agoraphobic nightly in skin.The thoughts in mind are submissionsTo shadows present in layers of water.There are layers of water in her old skin,In subcutaneous streams, one on the other.The vapors they emit are sulfur fumes.Her feet follow each other in a pageant.The professor said the mind made themWalk like an ancient petite Chinese girlWith delicate feet not made for distances.She struts and frets in the hour and is more.These are high performances on life’s stage.We need appreciative audience for claps.
38KeyMarch 04, 2011Her clean bill of health defies explanation.The skin holds the key to it, not the heartWhich is a pump much like the water motorRecently started to air-cool her sleeping.Her nightmares generally describe states.Behind the dusty stairs, the water-coolerLays her mingled past, in dark shadows.Her skin emits vapors, like a sun-drenched bog.As if it was moisture of the monsoon cloudsOr the expectant sultriness of the east coast.She drinks ten litres of pure aqua by night.Was it okay to drink straight from the bottle?But doctor, in sleep it pours from her being!
39WildcatMarch 03, 2011A wildcat purrs softly in the back of the carA random thing, a new geo-physical mapping.When material things like our flesh are madeSecurity checks will work on fur at the airport.Flesh and bones are white powder, brown ashes.When not thinking, thinking flesh is mere bonesThinking about the fleshy continuums of bones.A little flesh, some powdered bones, colored fluidAre all it takes to make us in plasma and chemistry.Our bones are adequate noises of disintegrating.We look for our nature cures in the black alley.Our bone powder is mere sound in the ankles.It is words that ooze in the flesh of our throatsJust like salt water that wells up in seeing holes.
40SweatMarch 02, 2011Our sweaty anxiety is in fact a pre-historic thing,A primordial phenomenon of our ancestorsLike single-horned or several-armed creaturesBestowing powers on dancers in the woods.Our bodies are now airy souls that feel free to flyFrom svelte conference rooms, plush hotel loungesInto shredded clouds floating in the rarefied air.We promptly put on our shields, on horsebacksAnd set out to conquer worlds that will conquer usUnless conquered, those lie beyond the mountainsThose that will descend with armies of elephantsThose that will bring about our decline and fall.We are anxious our thermostats will not functionAnd we may yet sweat under our anxious armpits.
41MourningMarch 02, 2011Morning seems a good time for mourningIn the breezy season of spring and March.That is when you have to mourn the deadIn flowing white garments, in vacant eyes.You wake up droopy-eyed, dream-freshBut your time is still ticking to the noon.When noon comes the day feels heavyIn the warm weariness of a siesta time.Your eyes half-close with sleep in them.Your garments become sleep-crumbledAnd their creases won’t hide black grief.In the evening loss becomes a far ghostBehind the coconut as the sun slowly sinks.As the night creeps in, sleep comes to eyesAnd absence feels like the only viable fact.
42WaterMarch 01, 2011There are blue striped pipes bringing waterTo empty into intense human-made bogsSitting on the roadside between future houses.There are here no crocodiles, only builders.There are no prole-born brothers in duressOnly workers in torn tents under a blue skyWedged between tall skeletons of houses.Houses are made replacing rocks in bushesMurdering rocks slowly by sharp knivesAnd rhythmic pickaxes that fall heavilyOn their summer bodies petrified in time.Often water softens rocks, makes them amenableTo slow murder by persuasion and perseverance.
43PatternsMarch 01, 2011On the beach sand were webbed feet patternsAnd unshod feet, one after the other, of walkersOn a rising sea of memories on a moonlit night.A hum went on like the breath of a sleeping child.Its sound patterns were like those of shore palms,Largely specters of lonely trees with wind in hair.Behind them were abandoned customs warehousesOf old brick patterns visible through flakes of time.A liquid moon stood at the centre of white cloudsTheir serrated patterns ruled out possibility of rain.Green fish nets formed a sea-like wave patternWith dark fishermen who sat on their haunchesMending broken nets with honeycomb patterns.
44Looking for the wordFebruary 28, 2011The word eludes in the night;Pushes you into its blackness.Change the colour, putter aboutIn the wild wastes of the nightAs though in a wandering gardenNot to pluck flowers and leavesBut to think about far peopleIn white hospitals, blue overalls.It is the white which outshinesThe black night in fluorescence.And the blue falls in the night.
45The rail -bridgeFebruary 28, 2011The train crossed the span against great ruckus.Miles before, we had thought of the coming bridgeWhen the train would stop greeting dancing polesTo enter sound, in a cacophony of steel and sound.The bridge would then disappear in forgot soundAnd the train would soon catch up with the world,In a victory of silence over sound, of sun over shadow.We knew soon there will be another clackety- clacketyCrossing of water and wind, more sound and fury.
46The tableFebruary 27, 2011The old table sat there gloomilyWith a checked cloth on its face.Poetry was far from its thoughts,Only a carpenter of wood to fixThe creakiness in one of its legs.The carpenter teases it from afar.He comes now and now, does not.He is not involved with our poetry.In the balcony our wet clothes hangRevealing tiny bits of the blue skyTheir tantalizing shadows will enter,When the table will embrace them.But that is a story of the afternoon.The table cloth has a dusty history.Under it lie its innermost secrets.But poetry was not in its thoughts.All it wants is a carpenter of wood,Who will fix the creak in its knee.
47PicturesFebruary 26, 2011In the night the pictures become clearOut of a shrill whistle piercing the dark.Words become thoughts, vivid picturesIn the whir of an electric fan in the room.It is a sound that comes through a childA child of the earth and of a climbed wall,A tree with leaves plucked into pocketsFor worship of a stone god in vermilionAnd the yellow softness of a beginning god.It is my god nestled in a heap of yellow rice.It is my women of rustling silks of the air,A fragrance of worship flowers and flame.It is the flame that dies in floral fragranceBut re-lives to verify my continued living.
48Remembered silenceFebruary 25, 2011I do not remember silence alwaysIn the midst of noises in my insideExcept in the very brief interludesWhen a noise holds over to another.It is the silence at the edge of soundThe brief highway of green paddy fieldsThat occurs between town and townIn a populous countryside whereNoisy chickens often cross the roadAnd men are found lying on the roadIn helpless pools of drunken silence.I remember more the awkward silenceThat rules when dialogue breaks downAnd the answers in her eyes do notAddress the questions in your throat.I remember those awkward silencesWhen words occur in sonorous soundsAnd meaning ceases to flow between menWhen expression loses its life function.
49MeaningFebruary 25, 2011In the bus a tiny girl suggested many levels,Layers of meaning filtering into a cosy busFrom the information spread about in the busAround the driver seeing in the rear view mirrorAnd the passers-by who vaguely whizzed past him.It was for me to make my own meaning for meSynchronising my plane of existence with hers.At another level a fuzzy sun set on the still lakeAs if the collected lake had to speak for the dayWithout the orange sun blazing in its other side.We had to make meaning from the tree by the lake.
50On the sidewalk men sipped tea from a red kiosk.They made their personal meaning out of the timeAnd the information in the trod dust of the road,In the bricks that piled to be built in a house wallIn the stray dogs that sat listlessly on the roadAnd in the dry leaves that fell on the parked car.
51NightsFebruary 24, 2011We love nights because they cut out frillsAnd get down to the bare bones very fast.They soften the contours to gray outlines.Like poetry they suppress needless details,Abolish borders; make a sky of the earth.The tree stands there brooding in the darkForgetful of its death by last year’s lightning.They even put night birds on its branches.The night fields become a vast promontoryWhere the sky and the earth become oneAs if the paddy is actually grown in the sky.In the night the bushes behave like moving,As if they are lazy bears on the wait for food.The mountain in the distance stands abolished.God knows where the clouds went from its top.Everything is drowned in the night of the sky.
52The pastFebruary 23, 2011The poet reiterates the past is a dream.Our body being of the past is but a dreamA mere dream in somebody else’s dream.His dream was part of my dream, beingThe grand dream of the cosmic scheme.I have come to know the past did not existBut I merely seemed to have dreamed it.We are such stuff our dreams are made ofNot just in the bard’s sense or in spirit-talk.Our dreams are so much inter-connected.When spirits talk ,bodies vanish like spirits.Our bodies disappear in chloroform smellOn the table under a green cloth of scalpel.Some times they just disappear in clay-potsInto flowing rivers, melting snow-mountains.Our spirits are mere words, some tautology.Our bodies do not exist except in dreams.
53Black comedyFebruary 22, 2011When we say a tennis ball it is a ping-pongWe love hyperboles for their graphic quality.We know the tumor can’t be so large inside,When the body believed it was a pin-head.We are playing our little dramas in our headThat is how the thing plays out in our script.Our script is black comedy, a fun thing we playWhen we are desperate about people we love.
54The helicopterFebruary 22, 2011We see several hands stretching to the helicopter,Of dry mouths that quiver with hope at its whir.A mystery how bodies can pile to form a pagoda.And why some bodies are always found on the copterWhile other bodies rise from the dusty ground-earth,And bodies here have to reach out to bodies up there.
55DiminishFebruary 21, 2011Inside we were afraid to diminish.The flowers have come to bloomTiny green mangoes are on the wayIt is now March and hot is less yet.Soon there will be a rain showerThat will diminish their flowers;There will be diminished fruits.There will be diminished imagesTheir colours shall become shadowsA few mere greys of March summer.Mist is migraine and fallen leaves,Unripe fruits helpless on the earth.
56DiscoverFebruary 21, 2011We are discovering needless things gleefully,The hidden light behind things, under stonesWith unusual creeping-crawling creatures.All we love is the other fine things in our homes.We may eat them now or consume a little later.Our tongues will wrap around them softly in tip.That man under the tree has a halo around him.But he deals in violet light of an exquisite varietyThat shows up our bones as in an x-ray machine.Our flesh erupts in goose-bumps if we hear him.All we want is light to show where our eats are.
57DisappearFebruary 20, 2011Wonder if I can disappear from this spaceAnd feel my absence in things, in wallsIn the wall pictures, in the trees outsideAnd in the blue sky that rises above them,Like a sparrow that pecks at the mirrorAnd hops away into its silver innards.Here I stand before the computer tubeAnd disappear into it sometimes, vaguelyTouching the outer walls of the worldBut come back soon to its inner walls
59Memories of memoriesFebruary 20, 2011In the evening we smelled talcumAnd tiny white queens of the nightAs we passed by the stairs of room.Once out we saw talcum-fresh girlsWho giggled for nothing in the sun.Their eyes had memories of the noonWhen their books appeared too heavyAnd their eyelids dropped for sleep.Their eyes had memories of nightsWhen they sat reading by the bulb.They had memories of rain-mothsThat had embraced dark death on it.Their faces had memories of soft mothersWaiting to cuddle them for the last time,Of noisy horse-carts that took them homeTo toddler brothers with running noses.
60Her storyFebruary 19, 2011Her story has become a mere pain in the rearA sardonic statement on death’s smiling faceA lecture-to, a curl on lips, a verbose dictum.A mere smear from her brought a smile on himIn all that was going on, the white halogen lightsThe fragrance of silks, the whir of beauty-dance.
61RambleFebruary 18, 2011Sticking to the point is so tiresomeLike an old man’s fixation on wearingA woolen muffler in the evening walk,The one that shuts out all street noisesMaking him prisoner of the inward hum.You get into the streets and ramble onIn the dusty labyrinthine town streets.I see absolutely no point in sticking.That makes you committed for life.In the end we come to the same thing.On the side street people sleep on cotsNot to admire the moon but rest backs.Buffaloes stand there with vacant eyesTheir udders full with reluctant milk.The old man is groaning in his blanket.He is still sticking to his point, his times.The train yells at people on the tracksIts flanks burst with hanging men.The train sticks to its point, they to it.It is fun to ramble, when other peopleAnd other things stick to their points
63JokesFebruary 17, 2011We are on the lookout for jokes,Not two-penny cell-phone jokes.They must tickle ribs, just in case.We mean if you feel itchy there.The macabre ones go in the wild.They do not strike you anywhereOn the ribs or in the belly-button.They do not come on cell-phonesOr fill shirt -pockets with splutter.They just happen in your stomach,In blood-stream, in the upper cage.As if they have dropped from above.You don’t know it when they hit.
64FatherFebruary 17, 2011Here strangers pass by, themselves alone.You try to find a snake in the hole for effectAnd actually find a snake but no effect.This snake is a water snake of summer.White clouds drift in the sky near the tree.You are alone, all the time, in your mind.You think of he who drifted away like a cloud,When you were still in swaddling-clothes.You had white clouds for swaddling-clothes.
65SilenceFebruary 16, 2011There is hoar and frost in the leafless tree.An old man has wisps of snow on his beard.Church spires rise up to the white sky.Their bells tinkle in frosty silence there,In a silence of the art, of contemplation.There is silence here, of paper crackle.In the kitchen there is clatter of cups.There is the blare of an oncoming train,A distant dog’s barks in morning’s silence.Silence is in the wall, hung on a sound.
66CadencesFebruary 14, 2011Here I write, dipping quietlyInto remote words, thoughtsOf other people and other me.Words that spring from otherNightly minds, nightly bodies.Thoughts that form cadencesIn the smooth flow of the night.
67Visit to the Jagannath* templeFebruary 14, 2011He ruled our puny minds and frail bodies.He smiled from a painted black wooden face-He that made body things and airy souls.A mechanised drum beat its stick in rhythmAnd a yellow camphor flame lit his face.We duly took his sanctified water to lipsAnd dabbed his holy sweet to closed eyes.We took a closer look at him while returningHe was like one of us, with a doting wife by himAnd a loving brother standing in attention .
68(*Jagannath literally means the Lord of the Universe)
69ShuffleFebruary 13, 2011Let me shuffle them and see beach peopleIn the rising waves of the sunset hour.My light falls on them, on pliant faces,On their hair in sea-filtered sunlight,Of the soft December skies of deep hue.On the beach they are just things, fine objects.Flooded in strange light, they lose their faces.
70VoiceFebruary 13, 2011Actually there is nothing with voice.Here my mind was held up to scrutinyFor my voice that needed to be raised.I can see the picture of mind’s knotsIn folded vicissitudes of inner spaceThat resonated with shrill bird calls,Flashes of memory, failure thoughtsThat soon faded away in a foggy past,A fall from a fecund sky, a brick wallThat returned all pharyngeal sound.Actually there is nothing with my voiceIt is just that I cannot scream loud enoughTo be heard on the other side of the river.
71CrazyFebruary 12, 2011In the night’s glittering wedding hallA crowd of sanity gave sidelong glancesTo this odd-ball of clothed crazinessWho holed you up in her gray craziness.You held her against her cousin’s bones.There was no country laziness in them.O you cousin, tell me where my meal,Thanks you for the plate she wheedlesOut of you .Excuse me sir, is she fromYour wedding party? Yes of course.Crazy people are in our wedding party;Wouldn’t I like her in the bride’s seat?(About a mentally challenged cousin of mine)
72PlaceFebruary 10, 2011In the rocking chair we are placed tightlyBehind the newspaper of all about places.There on the park bench shadows fall on usOf our several absences from thinking bodies.Dry leaves crunch below of remembered places.We then sleep on soft pillows in running trainsOf moving places and faster moving absences.Our desire for place is moving away from it.
73The owlFebruary 10, 2011At midnight the conch blows in a new start,The start of two new lives together of future.The owl is eternally welcome at midnight.Several owl-hoots echo in the wedding hallNot to betoken evil on the withered stumpBut to bring on back a seated wealth goddess.We welcome our owls in our own hoots.(At a marriage ceremony, women make owl-like sounds in order toinvite the Laxmi, the Goddess of Wealth who arrives on the back ofan owl)
74The intersectionFebruary 06, 2011At the intersection of truth and poetry,It does not at all matter if we prevaricate.Words do interfere by beauty and noise.We are not here speaking the real truthBut an almost truth, and if this is not it,Let the bodies speak, in their recedingIn their constant flux, movements away.
75Fait accompliFebruary 06, 2011A gray and sullen sky is up thereWith no flying birds frozen in it.I cannot paint all those birds backInto a seeming blue sky, tiny dotsOn the painted canvas of the world.My freedom is indeed at stakeAs I sure want my birds there.But I have to maintain proximityWith truth, with the real world,A kind of pretension of reality,In a verisimilitude of no birdsWhen no sun, but white clouds.I wonder why in the name of GodMy facts always come accomplished.
76MotherFebruary 05, 2011I thought he wouldn’t come, surelyNot with the body his mother has.Here, in her soul, there is quietnessOf resignation and in body, tautness.Mother’s body is yours, a fragmentIn the whole of your body, like mind,As you were a fragment once of her.If she dies, you die, in a piece of you.The rest of you will live with a hole.
78NowFebruary 04, 2011Now is a fragment of me in this spaceA fragment that lives and changes its shapeLike the amoeba of light changing feetA piece of the self growing by the hour.Now are my sounds coming alive at dawn ,The light that floats from the crack in my roofAnd drops of rain that texture my window,Dry leaves flying in the face of the wind.Now is fragment of time set in this me.
79Night thoughtsFebruary 03, 2011Night thoughts enter your bodyLike so much free-flowing waterAnd its top portion teems withIts many empty sounds, echoes.The body is your mind at night.The thoughts occur of livingUnder white sheets, iron cotsA shut window for winter cold,Of living, under eyes of sleep,In pajamas of strings loosedWhile dirty goods get splashedOn an old man’s quiet dignityUnder a pin-striped nightcap.In a prison uniform of thoughtsThe body is trapped in the mind.The night watchman’s stick hitsThe asphalt and your existenceIts tap accurately measures timeOn the asphalt of your existence.
81HearingFebruary 03, 2011I still hear the world in my ears.I hear the whoosh of the west wind,The noise of the empty wordAnd clatter of senses rubbingAgainst the body of the windAs if they are my very bonesThat move lazily in my knee.As I walk in my defunct dreamsI do not need the hearing aid.
82FlashesFebruary 03, 2011The cold seeps in our head.Our head echoes with a humOf the trees in the sea wind,A mere silence of the mind.That is when we look forFlashes of light, in sound.
83LightFebruary 01, 2011We talk here of light of everythingNot merely of dispeller of darknessIn the bat smelling ancestor caveBut of lightness of being, bearableBecause it does recur but may not.Our lightness becomes when the pillReaches deep recesses to dent painAnd lightness dawns in lower being.Our lightness happens in the moodNot in its several sing-song swings.Our lightness happens in the sun,When stone shines in its splendour.Our lightness floats in white beautyIn the textures of weightless words.Our words are lightness of the spiritWhen they come out of being onlyTo drift away in the sea of the night.
84(The faint allusion is to The Unbearable Lightness of Being, a novelby Milan Kundera)
85We long for the nightFebruary 01, 2011We do not look all that pretty in this daylight.Our beauty emerges slowly as night creeps upOn our houses and on our bodies, in starlight.Bright arc lights show us up as divine figuresBut without them, the stars do their job fine.It is the burning sun above our coiffured headsThat makes us look pretty ordinary and human.The way warm rays fall on us makes us squirmIn our clothed bodies, arms covered in glovesAnd our heads in scarves shielding from heat.We long for long silky nights that make us pretty.
86Belly-fearFebruary 01, 2011We now remember those smells of nightfall,On the mud track lined with thorny bushes.As night falls the bushes become ominous.Several night ghosts reside in thorny bushesThose make their ghostly food in the night.As our bullock cart proceeds toward the nightThe bells tinkle in rhythm in bullocks’ necksDrowning the dreadful shrieks of the ghosts.When the stream appears, the bullock’s bellsStop clanging for a while when pale ghostsResume their shrieks from their bush homes.We, the kids in the cart, hug mummy’s bellyWondering how the bullock fights its belly-fearWhen the bells stop clanging in the darkness.
87MilkJanuary 31, 2011There is wind in the dry leaves on the floor.The busy red ants are crawling up to the bark.The sky looks like rain will come and hail.The water sound there seems as if fallingOn the slanting tin roof but it is the squirrelOr some love- pigeons shuffling feet on it.Here I wait in the front porch of my houseAfraid, deep within that the milk has boiledAnd is overflowing whitely in the kitchen stove.Footsteps are easily drowned in dew- wet leavesAnd I am unable to go in to check the milk.
88Turning pointJanuary 29, 2011Somewhere on the journey, near the banyan treeI meet this perfect stranger in a colored headgearThat sits heavily on his head, his legs swathedIn silken dress-cloth, his torso decked in camphor.I see him come riding on a horse, sword in hand.I decide to join him aloft, in the journey beyondAnd now as I look back in the hoof-dust of his horseMy village becomes a mere blur in the blue hills.
89TrustJanuary 28, 2011You begin with a cloud of trust above youYour rubber house will not close in on youAnd when you come out to breathe fresh airThere is no poisoned air and the dirty aquaWill not do you in or the long rubber hoseWill not throttle you in your crying throat.Who is this one who had decided to give youA chance to exist ,borne out of a mere chanceCollision of particles in a big bang of bodiesLike the astral bodies singing the sky song?And now who is this another one ,years later,Who decided to give some one a chance to existOut of a similar collision in her inner spaceAnd you a chance to join this game of trust?
90GuiltyJanuary 28, 2011When I went to sleep yesterday nightI had to reckon this in my own failures.My sleepless thoughts were mainly of guilt.My long scroll stretched to the starlit sky.I tried to arch over the expanse of spaceTo see where the record of my guilt ends.In the back of my mind I have a feeling-Between us two I cannot be blamed for this .I now lay the blame for this at your door.
91MatterJanuary 26, 2011In the morning walk we thought of ourselvesAs mere matter, matter trying to coalesceWith other matter in a compulsive fashion,Man matter merging with woman matter-Destructible matter with destructible matter.The monk saw some bones and some fleshAn unusual matter that saw other matterIn a decomposed fashion ahead of its time.All the time we are making matter in thisFactory of the old matter merging to formNew matter which will do the same thing.This matter wants to control other matterAnd some times hastens the process of matterDecomposing ahead of time like the monk,In a compulsive urge to decompose matter.The matter is the same, monk or murderer.The urchin who broke the dog’s leg with a stoneWas just breaking down matter to its essentials.
92White flowers, dark creepersJanuary 26, 2011Muted conversations are heard in the streetIn the gray shadows of the houses of dusk.Women squat on the steps of their housesTo discuss their kids, husbands and neighbors.Their memories go back to other eveningsOf kids, drunk husbands and bad neighbors,Of the many pretty floral designs before housesOther women made in rice powder and color.The incense smoke from their four-armed godsEnters the streets, reaches up to the tall treesAnd electric wires, going up in silk-smooth swirls.As darkness sets tiny white flowers break outFrom loving mother creepers on the housesLike stars we often see burst on our roof at night.
94RememberingJanuary 24, 2011Remembering is a morning and some thoughtsThat swarm like those buzzing locusts in the airThose have descended from the far off alien skies,Their wings light and flapping to keep them alive.A child’s stick brings them down one at a time.You had nothing against them who were our guestsGuests from the plains of Siberia into our bushesThat had brought their memories, their thoughts.They had brought memories of many green leavesAt other places and other thoughts, other skiesBut you can only bring them down one at a time.
95The mosquitoJanuary 23, 2011The midnight mosquito is back in the earIt comes as a mere thought in the earlobeA buzz, that is, in an excruciating journey.I speak above the general din in the hallDo I hear less than I speak, in my tuning?Sometimes it is this old of the thoughts,A mere fear of the impossible in the darkA frightful young volcano in the nether bodyAs sleep comes distorted in the resting mindIn a mash-up of the living and the dead.When I lie in the plastic casket do I look,At the roof slab through its transparencySomehow contributing to the frigid roomThere in fourth floor in its un-swept dust?How can I add to anything up there withMy fixed stare where I cannot say all canAnd I am just a thing of the plastic casket,A thought buzzing like a mere mosquitoIn the earlobe, in the depths of this night?
100The crowdJanuary 20, 2011We dip into the mind of the crowd(Not sourcing the crowd as the geeksWould say under their light words)As the layers peel off in the internetRevealing the reader to the writerAnd vice versa in discursive modeIn a continuous text engagementAnd of images, virtual and sound.The crowd dips into a single manAs it dips into his tiny piggy bankAdding it all up to say it has wealth.The crowd is not a humongous mass.When it has things to say it says them.Its spiritual guru would say it all,What it likes to hear in heady incense.But there is the sorrow of the massesThe collective wailing of the crowdIn a black parody of all that goes onIn the recesses of its aggregate mind,A mash of bodies falling on the curbA bloody mess of an unwanted swordThe stupidity of a pantomime in blackIn a few burnished thrones and sashes.A boring repetition is all that they do
104The chain of beingJanuary 18, 2011At this time I wait for the big word,Rather for the bird of the deep night.It is this damn structure that preventsIt’s landing on the waste of the night.But it is now already moving on and outOf the limiting structure of beginning.The grasses wait in their levels of beingAs trees, animals and lesser creaturesI wait in my assigned place in the chainPatiently to ascend to my higher plane.A confusing woman is in the forumWaiting for twenty years to ascend.In her confusion are epiphanies hid-Dark mystery insights of the midnightWhen her birds land as mere words.In my human anxiety I truly want to beDeeply vegetarian with no sharp bladesThrust against my sleeping conscienceInto the vitals of a fellow living beingYet this is what I did, this night’s dreamThat left me wondering about sinningIf I kill in dream, will I go to a lower hell,Stopping my ascent up the being chain?
105EpiphaniesJanuary 17, 2011There is utter helplessness about the worldThe existing built world when I keep sayingPch , pch, not much can be done ,you know,My life is too short under the present sky;There are other skies, other spaces of times.My buildings shoot up steadily into a blue skyBut my clothes hang in the holes of balconiesTheir wet drops fall into masses of passers-by.Our epiphanies occur mostly in the fine gapsBetween the existing built world and this ‘me’If only they would allow me to build it anew.Thinking means wondering if can get the hell
106Out of these various hell-holes I have built;The holes can only be expanded, not blown away.Ha, ha, I now chuckle at the warm thoughtOf blowing away all my holes, one by one.It is a nice thought to blow away all the holes.But there is a bigger hole in this midnight logicBecause I cannot live under this open space.I am deeply afraid in the hole of my inner spaceAnd I need a five feet five canvas tent of a holeBetween my frame and the glimmering stars.
107The little dark oneJanuary 16, 2011At two this midnight the little dark oneBecame a poem, her all-knowing smileThe first stanza and her baby bird- glanceBecame the next one as she pranced thereOn the floor up and down like pendulumSwinging in the free air, a full fall of force,A pout of sarcasm from tiny baby lips.I at midnight wanted to round it offWith a cool third stanza, of epigramA last line well said, to the deep night.But she wouldn’t let me, the little oneThat squirmed in my hands like a wormFull of bones that pushed against mineIn my withered palms and finger bones.It is life which pushed against my death.As the night creeps I once again go intoMy epigrammatic mode of the old poetWith the bally irony thing barely broached.The curl on my lips that briefly occurredVanished without trace in my confusionAs my eye followed her moving in circles.I thought I had seen the curl on her lips.
108Bored poetJanuary 16, 2011The bored poet is not a sleep-deprived poetBut a wanting- to- create poet with the leavesYet to fall, and the golden autumn yet to arrive.A yawn or two at midnight is not pillow-sleepWhen warm musk thoughts steal from behind.Actually they have been there under the groundWaiting for the first rains to bring them to lifeA summer breeze from the warm mountainsWill surely quicken them in those fluffy cloudsTo bring to the dust to sprout light and green.The poet loses his amber sleep in the afternoonFiguring out when autumn ends, spring begins.
109Poems of the nightJanuary 13, 2011These poems appear at midnight with the shoutsOf fearsome Alsatians with their echoing barks,That emerge daily ,from lonely houses on the hillsLiving behind electrified fences of sleazy money.The barks come from their dark cavernous mouthsOf soft sorrow, born inside, of gratitude and love.The poems come from the sleeping mouths of furyFrom where emerges the silence of a sleeping cityWhose tautness will break at the first crack of dawn.
110PilgrimageJanuary 12, 2011Mother, what is now cooking, in your home?That once smelled of onion roast and fried potatoes?Where is the food you promised us the last time?You now talk of long distance yellow pilgrim busesThose will take you to the pristine hills of snowAnd the pearl-white temples nestling in them.The holy beads become weighty on your frail chest;Their mountain smells are truly overpowering.Up there shimmers a silver lake of frozen iceAnd pretty swans gracefully float as in a dream.There under the looming shadow of a white rockSits your three-eyed god who will dance destruction,When he will open his eyes from his deep thoughts.Mother, will you then cook lentils and rice for him?
111ColdJanuary 10, 2011Here, in the cold of the nose you are transmogrified:To become a little tranquil, like the sea in the morningWith a hidden possibility of rise to the moon at mid- night.The white surf is quiet, lacking evening ‘s orange passion.The hum in the ears is but an imitation of the dark night.But the sounds come to you like morning beach crowsLanding on their whooshing feet near the gentle wavesLooming largely as though they only exist in this worldAnd none other, on the sand-earth or in the sea-air.For example we ignore the existence of jumping fishOr crawling snails in the wet sand in and around holes.Or plastic fishnets in knotted heaps of red and blueOr strange old women selling sea-shells of rarest hue.Here these pills enter the swelling sea of my bloodTrying to negative the existence of those tiny creaturesThat feverishly ride their red waves in gusto, up and down.The sea is everywhere around our dear earth and in us.Its hum is persistent, breaking only when bigger soundsLand on the shores of our tranquillity like beach crows.
112TremblingJanuary 09, 2011First of all I don’t believe I trembleAt the thought of the dark night to come.My feet do not quake but shuffle in walk.There is sweat on brow and fear in my eyes.I don’t believe my trembling unbelief.
113PainJanuary 08, 2011When we were being borne our idea began.Our limbs slowly formed making us a tadpole,Then a blind creature swimming in the aqua.Our idea is just once, living in the presentLike the carriage wheel touching the earthOnly once in a brief vertiginous movement.Those limbs we grew have to go in the end.The gills shall disappear as vestiges of then.Somewhere in the middle we grew some fleshAs succor for new life, new love and beauty.But we remained just an idea, a brief momentA fleeting moment when beauty shall pass.All that will remain is mere flesh and its pain.“Strictly speaking, the life of a being lasts as long as an idea.Just as a rolling carriage wheel touches earth at only one point,so life lasts as long as a single idea”(Radhakrishnan, Indian Philosophy I, 373).(re-blogged from The Floating Library)(Hearing of the discovery of breast cancer of a friend’s wife)
114HousesJanuary 07, 2011Houses we think of, in sun and rain-Those houses which live, cheek by jowl,With maternal mango trees of summer.Their shadows paint their white canvas.In monsoon the houses are painted greenIn delicate taffeta of luminous moss.The squirrels climb the tree lookingCuriously into your bedroom window.
115HeightJanuary 05, 2011When your face is situated quite highYou look naturally down on the worldBecause that is where your eyes are and whereDramas are staged before sequined curtains.When you lie down on the ground with your eyesOn the infinity of the dark promontoryYou see tiny fish-worms swimming behind themAs if they were swimming in your own blood.It is these swimming creatures that will do you in.You remember, you were once one of them.
116Old ageJanuary 03, 2011Funny how we all begin in our old age.First we ignore it and then are afraid.The pain down there reduces us merely.Fairly farcical, our faces have lost allTheir humanity, angelic glow, at a time.These our pills are tiny white universes.They vanish darkly in that vast chaos.We laugh deeply in hollow inwardness-A toothless attempt at biting sarcasmWhenever the phone does not truly ringBut becomes a mere ringing possibilityUncomfortably vibrant for an old pocket.There is now not even pain there belowBut a dull ache in the lower mind and back.All our hellos trail off in the blue winter sky.
117Celebrating the New Year (2011)January 01, 2011Poetize we said, whatever prose there is.At twelve new night, little boy and girl jigIn bleary-eyed parental compulsion, proud.They keep up with Joneses on cup and cakeAs wine sparkles between uncles and aunts.Our little cherub dances his steps so cutely,We are proud of him in his English school.But there is tension everywhere, tensionOn the wall, elephants get up and chargeWith their tails tucked in their taut behindsAnd a poet appears from cloud and rain-Wet behind the ears, the poet who forgetsTo wear iambic pentameter in his under.Poetize, we said this morning to the treeIn the hills where village women trudgeTo work, with many-storied meal boxes.
1AuthenticityJuly 31, 2011I am often confronted by a feelingOf lack of authenticity, in this river,Of not feeling like a subject, spuriousAgainst mountains that sit in the farWith river waters beating on my ears.I am words from vaporous thoughts,A prose-poem thought in dark nooksOf the mind, mining word after word.The mountains belong to the earth.I, waving in breeze, am a mere babyA cry-baby in quick mountain wind,Flying words against its rock solidityIn its flowing wind and night silence.The mountains are authentic in spaceWith river about me, in daily ripples.They had come here much before meWith the waters from skies, daily sun.I exist here in the river, as a thoughtA passing thought of a real mountain,A thought in river, a temporary rock.
2Climate changeJuly 31, 2011We spoke all our recent dialogues nicelyVoicing apprehension of the big change.Our struggle had continued underneath.It was a monotone speech in a gray skyWhen the line of trees came to a freezeIn their hostility, where they stood tall.The gentle summer breeze did not matter.The trees sniffed autumn and looked away.Emaciated street dogs barked incessantly,At hooded strangers coming at us from hillsFrom the edge of the sky, in clouds of dust.Our dialogues went on in our dark robesAs our culture bristled riskily in our back,The culture of reality, in our failed heartsWhere several realities came up togetherNot as a single earth-reality in silk threadBut a failed reality of a fluid mind-stateA sky of treeless vapour, sea of flake-salt.
3MetaphorsJuly 30, 2011We are nowadays happy with our new doorA membrane bathroom door that now shedsA certain mauve hue on baths, while in song,With the shower flowering on our cool backsStreaming as if from a rock skirted by treesIts vapors swirling like their winter breaths.Our song is under breath, in some mutters.Our vapors are on glass that hides in smokeOur rather banal faces, their jejune laughter.We are, in fact, searching for our metaphors,Being upbeat about our recent turns of phrase.
4Phony visionJuly 29, 2011I do not know if the thing is phonyGlass-like, with glistening dew-dropsOf a morning vision on windshield,Pearl-glass that breaks in little coinsOn endless highways, on mild impactOf metallic bodies with drunk men.Some cars have steam on bonnetsLike bees, in spring, on the stone.Our vision is partly crowded, you seeWith birds hiding dust in the eastThat has turned orange at sunriseA phony vision, it is partly clouded.On the highway there are no housesOnly string cots for our dream sleepOn glasses of buttermilk, hot breads.We have whites on our mustachesOf too much buttermilk in throats.You crinkle eyes enough and you will seeWet buffaloes calmly chewing their cud
5In tin sheds that jump out of green fieldsTheir milk sloshing in their pink udders.Luckily their tail-flies and smells fly awayInto tree-tops, waking the morning birds,A phony vision indeed, partly clouded.The sunflower beds have darker kidsThat smile nicely of a little alphabet,Like flowers that turned deep inwardWhen the sun went behind the hills.Their little bees have nowhere to go,Wait; let the sun come from the hills.The village school is closed for todayIn honor of the guests on the string cotThe sunflowers will open with the windAnd the shadows will creep up slowlyBehind the buffaloes, with eyes closedTheir mandibles moving up and down.The vision is clouded, a phony visionCaused by much emotion in the eyes.
6ScreamJuly 28, 2011In the bone house it would appearThe lower mandibles were stretchingAnd stretching to produce a screamThat would fail to reach down to ears.Actually they were trying to bite sarcasm,Surely a futile endeavor, especiallyThey do not have tongues in cheeks.
7HolesJuly 27, 2011We are talking of holes, mere lack of matterSubsisting in matter and surrounded by itOf words that exist in crevices of thoughts,Words making the world’s holes in whole.My dead are matter in lack of it, globe-earthsThose spin in lack of space, in crisp night air.They spin in the space of time, holes in space,Phosphorus glow-worms roaming thin nights.They are holes in space, where they had lived.They are now words that will live in thoughts,Those remain in my mind, as images of realityTill I become a hole in space, a picture, a word.
8Children in the rainJuly 26, 2011We wanted clearly laid out pathsBetween thin strands of July rain.Our faces were drowned in hoodsAs the rain fell softly on our heads.Its sounds came as from the ocean.Our puny judgments took a beatingIn such a steady patter on our earsWhere they seem to be beating usLike angry fathers, back from office.As we walked we made tiny circlesIn rain water, under our umbrellasThat saved us from an angry sky.The houses were a blur in white.Our paths ended in green of trees.Rain-mud spattered on black coatsSurprised by blurs of passing cars,Their wipers saying no to the rain.We had left our school in the street.Our home of angry smoking fathers
9And soft grannies in loving egg-headsSeemed to vanish in the fuzzy rain.A scruffy dog shook its body of rain.Back at home, we bath our wet bodiesIn eucalyptus steam, as its vapors riseQuickly to drown the rain in its smell.
10BridgeJuly 25, 2011We had passed the bridge spanning a river of sandAt dawn, when our noisy train spoke to its emptiness.Once out of it, the train was bending like a centipedeAnd we took a long backward glance to see the bridgeNow smarting under noise injury on its deaf,deaf ears.The buffalos on its sand-bed looked up, unmindfulOf the bridge, of the noisy train that passed, and of usIn the train that saw them as mere globs on the sand.Their black bodies longed for green puddles of water.Their eyes seemed vacant, as their tails swished flies.We saw they had not even once met us in our eyes.
11The temple of shadowsJuly 24, 2011Men and women live here with stonesTheir shadows live with them in daylight.The shadow phalluses of shadowy godsLive in the musty smells of kings in silksTheir soldiers in attendance on swords.Women have their foreheads on red dots.Priests move throats up, down like birds.Their prayers fly like shadows to the sky,Their hungry stomachs touch their backsWhere they produce shrill incantations.Here god is crying inside, in the shadow.Beauty is hunger in distended stomachsDrunk with soft palm wine from the sky.
12SkinJuly 22, 2011Here my life began in a belly- fear of the darkIn a sky not visible, filled with fearful locustsThat comes in swarms, across the snow hills.The swarms eat up all our grasses in the way.But woman-insects begin life in the same way,Afraid of the dark in their own womb houses.I now swim in this my pool, where I had comeNot of my own, my dad being of different skin.When I come out of these waters into the sunMy skin shall wear all those paints in the sunSo it can please the leathery skins of dad’s classAnd I can build my own womb-house to hostA tiny swimming tadpole, with a swaggering tailThat shall never have belly-fears of the dark.But I only fear that my oxygen will be cut offBefore I open my eyes to the sun in the hills.(Female feticide is practiced in some parts of India due topreference for the male offspring, ostensibly to carry on the familylineage)
13Morning at the Tirumala templeJuly 22, 2011The morning starts cawing in its throat in sleepAnd the silky song of God’s morning shall waitFor worship flowers to come in the flower train.Flower trains are full of milk cans and turbansAnd women in colorful costumes smelling milk.The pigtailed high-rise throats shall begin nowIn god’s praises, he bleary-eyed from late night’sJumping across the night to wife’s house below.The shepherd is tending sheep of yesterday evening.The morning shall begin when the clouds move awayAnd stop threatening the shepherd with cloud-rain.In the meantime of morning, let rolling people rollLike waves in the midnight ocean, their wet bodiesMaking silent noises against the stones of the temple.
14A semblanceJuly 21, 2011I have decided not to call on her in his deathIn order to create a mere semblance of as was.My ghost would continue to exist in this far,As a mere shadow of a reality, just a figmentThat would create a flimsy semblance of fact.His death is now, for her, a mere semantic fact.Let the existence of my body be a semantic fact,Just like his lack of body in her drawing room,Till my lack of body is a similar semantic fact.
15FactsJuly 20, 2011These facts do not really speak for themselvesIn the cloud cover of this weather, on a rainy nightWhose dome still stifles us beyond mortal breath,While pursing our lips, brooding in blue thoughtSpeaking musty history words, empty hypotheses.They do not hold in the crisp air of night dreams.Truth is our viscous reality in the lower abdomen,An open space where the breeze blows regardless.Beauty is a reality that lay beyond the body’s crooksIn a niche where it all adds up under a petrified bone.
16LayersJuly 19, 2011As we had opened eyes we saw ourselvesIn the mirror, profoundly struck by the nightOur faces serrated by layers of collected time.The holes there carried lightless rain waterThat went green in the lazy years of old fish,Tadpoles that, by morning, turn green frogsIf only allowed their photosynthesis by day.We then peeled our white faces layer by layer.Our war paints then came off and snow cream,The layers that revealed our first fears and godsAnd our demons that shrieked through the day,To be liberated from the good wishes of gods,And placentas of unborn kids that had carriedBorn sins of our fathers in their ugly plasticity.We saw the serrated sands of the Thar desertThat had cumulated over the oceans drowningThe fish, the tadpoles, the frogs and the oysterAnd all other aquatic creatures under its silica.We saw nights piling on nights, years and agesThe grass that covered our millennia in layersOn broken walls of our cities, the moss growingSilently on the trees, the hills covered in mistTheir peaks entirely covered in forgetful snow.
18The parcelJuly 18, 2011I had received a white parcel in my dreamYesterday from the bank at the street-cornerWhere my address was intact in ledger foliosAs a man in swivel chair, gold name on door.It will be delivered at home, when I am awake.They have to know their customer, you know.I have to know my balcony from where I lookWhen the man’s bicycle bell rings from below.My balcony has no number, in wind and rain.These days my name on the door is too faint.
19Goats for goddessJuly 17, 2011We looked at our goddess closely in the mind.She was much in our step, on way up the hill.There were no snakes, no crowned peacocksWith tails that danced oncoming rain-clouds.We only looked for our yellow-faced goddessThat stood in stone niches in the ancient hills.We tied flags of red cloth towards loving motherAround gnarled trees , for our women’s fertility.When cholera struck our village we had soughtHer help in her stone temple of exquisite beauty.On this festival day we seek her maternal blessingAs we take pots of food to her on women’s headsDancing our way to her heart in crowded streets.We wish our goats to join festivities, when alive.
20ArgumentsJuly 16, 2011The sky is dull gray, with rows of v-birdsStitched on it in round silken embroidery.Mountains sit there prettily, with a lone treeThat stood at the curve, bending in the sky.The arguments went on a bit tediouslyIn a boring persistence by some guests.Their chairs are now warm with victoryThis side of the table as the papers rustle.Their news emitted in the room to the roofReturning slowly to the other side of legs.On their laps are napkins wet with lips.The arguments wear thin like mouth-spit.Outside, the tree stood bare and naked.Frogs argued with the bog interminably.The tea ceremony has started in our eyes.The sky is still dull gray with three rowsOf v-birds dotting its embroidered clothTheir wings stopped flapping long ago.
21ShapesJuly 15, 2011Newspapers jut out from spaces, their wordsHaranguing at noon, awaiting sleep in our eyesOn stomachs well-fed, cutting the day in two.The first part of the day is stored away, at noon.Some words loosely fall away in the daylight.The day soon changes to a misshapen eveningAwaiting its night, beyond light, of a black sleep.The night will be round in shape, curtains drawn.My train will lose its shape in a curve of its line.The line will lose shape as the train cuts it in twoBecoming two lines, two shapes, two phone lines.The birds on the phone lines will go up and downLosing shapes, every now and then, triangularly.The world will lose its shape, in the dark of sleep.
22CirclesJuly 14, 2011We have come down to the earth, concentricallyIn our circles, ever decreasing, blazing in space.The circumference is always in view from centerBut the promontory remained outside our graspWith little dots that flickered unmindful of us.When we made circles we would run in themIn ontology, our circles shrinking progressivelyIn spherical perfection, their penciled geometryImplemented on our puzzled feet, never too farFrom the centre like the cow grazing in its tether.
23RitesJuly 13, 2011Among our thoughts are rites, following wordsPrescribed by pigtailed pundits of yore, talking,In the bombastic language of our ancient godsTo airy spirits who had bodies in the olden days.They understood us mostly in difficult language.As words went, our hands went, our eyes wentOur tongues moved, our bodies stirred slowly.Our thoughts remained on the dead, as if dying.We stared at the sky in its lifeless continuumAnd we took water to lips, thrice, thinking of herAmong the ones who once had bodies like us.
24The silenceJuly 12, 2011The silence strikes again like faint flint sparks,That do not readily open up in fires of dry sticksOf our old men, behind deer running for arrowsFrom caves of early pictures, with a blazing sunIn the day and a moon at night, in liquid silence.The silence of rain falls on the night, on cricketsIn corners of homes, along with silent brooms,Brooms that will play song with the road at dawnOf women whose eyes are limpid pools of silence.The silence of words strikes, their images silentIn their fury, passions of a deep night, like wavesThat broke on lonely beaches with sleeping gulls,The silence of death on eyes closed, on seeing .
25CollageJuly 12, 2011In our beginning there was this whole thingOf a face which loomed large, a large houseBefore everything happened, an empty airBlowing it inside out, in a comically funny act.The absurdity was our serious thing of heartThe body was ludicrous imitation of an ideaA funny caricature of living, a slowly dying act.The images were wholes, just shattered soundsAnd mere smells that struck an upturned noseIn a mind-state that absorbed the largely funny.The critical mind dissected holes in wholesAs desiccated bodies that lay on green tables.The naked blue bodies that lay on the floorStared at the ceiling fan, in a final love actOf science and poverty, among other funnyImages of bodies, not yet blue, not yet naked.The grotesque faces then came laughing at youWithout their torsos, in a view of the big pictureWhen you saw funny patches of hairless headsControlling the world, others in tiny fragmentsTheir bodies quickly vanishing in vote machines.But fragments do not make sense, a collage may.
26FlamingosJuly 10, 2011What came to me was an ornament, mere.Its functionality extremely suspect in eyesA high role in its augustness, silk-borderedAnd flamingo-like from the distant swamps,Little specs of whiteness, flying in the blueFlamingos that have no use for me, in bread.There was a light tree in the middle of the road.Our memory spoke of a cherubic kid on its crookAnd grandmother holding him aloft in the air.Memories are flamingos, of no use in bread.Kid is no kid, now a larger pain in his big backAnd in our backs, laden with the silver of hair.Our memories are ornaments like flamingosThose have gone back to their Siberian plainsThey have roosted and gone, vanished in blueThe whites now in the blue are new flamingos.
27PiecesJuly 10, 2011The morning went into many piecesA cuckoo’s call to rain, rain to come,Thinking of new ways to neighbor areaWalking on mud to explore fresh skiesIn visible light of yet-to poetry, photo.A fan in room had a touch of the coldThe cold death of the tree that has been,The sky spaces between the other treesWhere birds will speak in parliament.In the streets are footfalls of men’s walkA distant sing-song of morning to godAnd flowers smelling from felled creepers.The lake that cried in our filthy watersTo the machine that silently cleaned it.Beyond the lake are its borders of flatsWhere people sleep in lake mosquitoesThose have their history mixed with us.In the meantime women sweep streetsTheir broom-sounds assailing our earsIn the liquid treatment of dusty roads.Their husbands have froth at mouths.Their kids get up bleary eyed for school.
29StubJuly 09, 2011I see this stub, a broken thing from wind.A vertical thing, rising to the sky, de-frockedSprawls on the earth, its mourning motherStaring at the sky, above the electric wires.Children dance on its body, in school uniformThey have learned how to dance on short stubsIn the school of lunch boxes, topied teachersWith horn-rimmed spectacles on their noses.The trailer comes spluttering, this organic one,Separating windy things from inorganic stuff,The leaf from the wood and pick up living matterTo grow new living matter, in large windy spaces.The stub remains in wind, still embracing mother.
30The internetJuly 08, 2011The internet is a not a thingy but just mental stuff,A few electric charges firing up from so many spacesIn assembly of plastic boxes and optic wires runningUnder sea, reaching our houses here via our balconies,Where we hang our wet clothes like many-colored flagsQuietly announcing our identity near so and so tree.Simply, it is a skull-thing linked to several skullsFrom other places, other holes in air, their balconies.In the internet we speak to the vast oceans of peopleThose have no faces worth their names, their fathers.They move in waves, hair on brow, tails yet hanging.Their words are early promises, forgot by dusk timeIn an after-glow of pretty rhetoric and purple prose.
31RealityJuly 07, 2011He woke from sleep in order to experience reality,Waking being a reality when in a fluid state of sleepAcknowledging sleep had been a greater reality,Immanence in body, a severe presence in mind.He had to listen to the whistle of the night guardThe bark of a hoarse dog, in its throat of hill echoAs if on the edge of the hills calling down the skyThe stars having come to doze in nightly flickers.Reality begins as solidity, continuing its descentTo the fluid and thence to vapor and empty proofOf an existential fact, a shriek from night cricket.The phosphorous of our bones roams in the skyAs night lights in the vastness of a cold desert.
32KnotsJuly 06, 2011A tiny insect is now taking a tour on my mouse pad.A machine whir heard in its wings’ flapping soundEnters my conscious in the yellow light, in morningSounds of the gray sky outside, its rain yet in pouring.My thoughts overflow my ears, along ropes that knotIn the middle of the air, in the blue spaces of sounds.These are silver ropes that glisten in the day’s sun.I have to pay their price in my family silver, my love.
33NowJuly 05, 2011Your clothes balloon in the increasing wind.The brown hills look bloated with spring windAnd now is merely in your future and my pastAs my eyes drift past the hills into a blue sky.A sky bird swoops upon the grass, on deathLike the swirling plane that crashed on roofsIn yesterday’s dream and today’s newspaper.The bird is in the now, in ballooning clothesWith the wind that brought it down in circlesTo death in its putrefying smells on the earth.Your silken clothes balloon in a gust of wind.You look bigger in flowers and fragrant loveLike butterflies in a fragmentariness of nowIn refusal to meet with past, its smelly deathAnd set on fly-wings of future in a sky of now.
34The hall of mirrorsJuly 05, 2011Our faces appear funny in mirrors, looking clumsy,Bursting quickly into loud laughter without humor.On our way up, we hold our rusted banisters looselyStooping, with a hand on our hips, as if in a dance.Here we have laughed, in hollow sounds, in spacesBelow the stairs, full of dust and in obscure cornersFilled with our dead skin cells and our stale memoriesThose have remained on the attic in our long historyIn cloth bundles that shrink like our faces in mirrors.Their knots on top stick out like pigtails on our facesWhen, at night, they enlarge in grotesque convexity.
35Children in the afternoonJuly 04, 2011We played seven stones game, piled one on anotherToppling them with ball that would fly into bushes.The lazy afternoon heat beat on our sleeping trees.The birds had gone on to their own afternoon sleep.We entered the scrunching leaves sending the lizardScurrying to the hole of its wall, its triangular headPopping out a while to hear our tiny feet in the leaves.Up on the mound we deeply looked into a dark holeTo look for the slithering sound of the resident snakeWe would then run down fast, afraid of its unheard hissAnd fall to the ground with coins of kneecaps bleeding.We then climbed the guava tree to its highest branch.We caught the squirrel eating the fruit of our ripeness.In the evening we played badminton with the marigoldSmelling yellow petal shreds as they spread in the sky.
36The messengerJuly 03, 2011Here I am stuck with the thought of a messengerSans his message, my life’s meaning, sent to meAlone in this desert, by the mighty China emperorFrom the royal hall, written into unhearing ears,By a dying emperor on his imperial death-bed.The messenger had a rising eastern sun on chestWhere froze the possibility of his ever reaching meAcross the vast people in the expanding hallways.There is no writer between the emperor and himOnly deaf ears and the quivering lips of a dead manI know the message is oncoming in the vast lands.Here in this window, I feel the wind in my bones.I smell the smell of a silky scroll as it softly opensAnd I can dream its contents as the evening comes.(Reading A message from the emperor by Franz Kafka)
37The day’s truthJuly 03, 2011The truth seemed in the half-eaten guava of the parrotsThat flew away with their happy truth cracked halfwayTheir colors were not the truth, but their trifling facts,Their petite nothingness, in the tree, they ran away fromThe waffle of their living reality in the tree they flew to.The fragrant guava that fell on the wet ground bleedingFormed the truth connected to the waving of coconutsAnd the rain that came from the other world on its cloudsBearing facts of the other time, other space in its dropletsThe night they had embraced ,in its amorphous darknessWhen the stars refused to come out yet in their deep sleep.The truth was the middling reality of a cobbler’s broken lifeIn a leather bag he stitched in clumsy seams on a daydream,The cussedness of a sitting reality on the road of shuffling feet.The yellow and red bags, like green parrots, were his truthHalf –cracked in the afternoon sun ,waiting for his duskWhen all truth shall lie buried properly in drunken stupor.The truth was the broken reality of the six ‘o clock trainThat had disgorged people like ants, from holes in its wallTheir truth lay in the broken lives that would come to nightFrom the aggregates of other people’s broken lives of the dayTheir truth lay half-cracked , in the train they just left behindClimbing flyover steps to home truths of mamas and wives.
39The temple godJuly 02, 2011It has rained behind the tree and the evening sun comesIntermittently in waves of laughter from clouds, splittingThe vitreous evening sky into inconsistent blue and orange.The light from our bodies crosses its threshold rebelliouslyIn a lightning of the world, like a click of the flash camera.All that we required was a god safe in his temple laughingAt our fables, at our immature art in the shadows of lightWhen we fail to create life, flesh natural, bones breaking,The pure immanence of life, its glory on the lonely nightAnd then we are answerable to none in our question hours.Quietly we cease to exist, with no words trailing behind us.As if we are stones of several insects breathing under us.Like him in the temple we wish to laugh anonymously.
40Morning in BegumpetJuly 02, 2011Behind the coconuts the trainArrives with a night’s memoriesHidden in its noisy under-belly.The clouds have come and gone.That seems another rainless day.The flies, expectant of fresh rain,Actively seek the night’s refuse.The first train is heard in arrivalIn a monotone of announcement.The wind rustles in the coconutsQuietly dropping a baby coconuton the roof with a crashing thud .Train commuters, fresh from nights,Descend station steps in a dream.
41The idiotJuly 01, 2011A girl makes you the idiot you are , againstThe stone-pelting of children who will love youOn your grave, their flowers sprinkled as if rainYou are the bright idiot weighed down by loveA diamond pin you will sell for a little outcaste girlWho loved you in delicate hanging of five minutesOn a scaffold of death, the priest of a crucifixWho will say absolutely nothing for your ChristLife comes to the idiot in fits, paroxysms of joy.(Reading The Idiot by Dostoevsky)
42SecretJune 30, 2011We share our secret with the dead in their yellow leaves.We feel it softly touching our bones in the deep lightOf the shopping mall where we go to pick up beamsOf light that need to be colourfully knitted in our ownShadows at home, the ones we buried under our walls.In the urban glass-palaces we feel it in our vacant eyes,In our ears, when it touches their drums beating themTo bring out their fine city music, in its singular rhythm.It is in the fever of its wood and glass, in its electric frost.
43GlassJune 29, 2011Now I think of the crash of the body, its broken splintersShining in the afternoon rain, like tiny mirrors for clouds.I think of birds that are glass pieces embedded in the wallThose were once airy souls living in bodies of glassy flesh.I think of fistfuls of birds that beat like mad in glass chestsTheir pace-makers, working overtime in solid plate glass.
44ListJune 29, 2011Let us list things of that evening when the dusk lightFlooded, through the tree, this wiry man and his womanAs they were winnowing for the day, sifting wheat of goldFrom its powdered chaff, against a light-powered windIn a muscular swing of the male arm, an upturned faceTheir bodies synchronized in an exquisite wheat-danceAs happiness lay somewhere in this jumble, in this list.
45ScribblesJune 28, 2011Between then and now is a mere scribble lostInto an indifferent writing, by a little fingerOn the night of time, some sand sculpturesOn beach of ephemeral gods, lost in waves,Some writings on waters, with wind on backAgainst waves that break only to be countedAs fuzzy surf that will vanish in rising people.A scribble in the sun that would vanish soonIn vapors of white clouds, above the blue hillsInto flying white birds that drop their whitesIn calling fingers, fists raised, noses upturned.A scribble on the slate of learning in our villageBehind shuffling buffalo feet, in udders of milkOn the silky brown sands of summer-hot riversStaring at the far hills emptied of their green.Between now and then is a mere scribble lostOn faces in pony-tails, in tiny brick-red flowersWedged in hair, that jostled with white fragrancesOn evanescent blouses, on backs smiling directlyTo celebrating trees that shed many a tear of joy
46In yellow leaves, on their own circles of shadows.
47Ghosts in our sleepJune 27, 2011These ghosts make you deeply afraid on the pillow.Their torsos are human-like but bottoms taper offLike the blurbs they speak into, in cartoon stories.Our childhood ghosts are now dead in their treesBut new ones from cinema pop up, in wind and rain,Under doors, in their creaky hinges, now and then.Our ghosts these days do not have tapering bodiesTheir bodies do not now laugh in tiled mortuariesIn the outskirts of town, where they cut up bodiesNor live in tamarinds in shrieking street-cornersWhere suicide ghosts once lived with their families.They sleep quietly under our skull-plates till midnightWhen they come out in moonlight for a ghost-dance.
48Free will, free fallJune 27, 2011I land on my free will this eventful nightLike the cat that lands softly on its rubber feetBefore getting up to pick fight with anotherScreaming cat in the dark, as the night swells.Here I am doing things, falling on my ownWith no other sons of mothers in betweenStopping my free fall, so I nicely land on feet.I get up and shake the dust off my clothes.I some times land on my two feet for nothingAnd the prospects of bound legs loom large.I am no feral cat from brooding jungle treesJust a hospital cat with high- slung legs in air.Free fall is not free, merely gravity-bound.Actually there is nothing free in rarefied airOnly a crashing fall that comes entirely free.We are bound to act according to free will.
49IdentityJune 26, 2011In the evening some identity questions popped upIn the tinkle of a few china cups of rising tea steamAnd stainless steel spoons of sugar in place of cubesBrought in by two whitely dressed men from Kolkata.Themselves plagued by identity in their white dressThey inverted bed ,took out your air in the broadsheet.Their fathers have their unending tales to unwindTheir wind fresh from the marshes of SunderbansWhere tiger tails deftly elude experienced hunters.Their uncles are government clerks in frayed red filesTheir brother’s wives doting mothers of soft loveWith saree over heads, of wholly hidden identities.There are others in the room that do not have facesThe ones that seem to speak out in clanking soundsFrom the corners, their spanners at work on the wallThey may be spiders who have just woven their webThey will climb the wall, their shadows on the roofOver the electric fan coaxing it to whir in its shadow.The taxi man to here was a communist with dreamsHis son painted slogans and politicians that staredFrom stately billboards rising above electric wires.A communist has no identity apart from the stateThe state just stares in empty space from its heights.
51The beggarsJune 24, 2011These beggars tug at your sleeve, smelling your moneyIn thin sheets of small paper, lying in your leather walletsWith decisions about their life, marriage and God inside.Their thoughts mainly look into a sitting plastic tumblerOf loose change, where water should have flowed smoothly.They dream of scraps of music, sung in trains, with breezeThat came in and went out, through a whir of train fansAnd a sad song could easily flow to a single wire of music.Outside the temple their cloth spreads like the night skyAnd the coins glisten in it, like stars on a moonless nightLying loosely with decisions about life, women and God.
52TautologiesJune 23, 2011The world eludes, sleep to sleep, in the deep night.Cobra-snakes writhe and flying planes from the skyCome crashing on house-roofs, the logical consistencyOf images in serious doubt, their semantic context.Flowers open in pearl-white, their petals unfold,To golden sunlight from the hills, to water mirrorsIn early morning lotus fragrance from the pond.Women in colour return with plastic vessels of waters.The lotus stems in knots writhe like green snakes.Here the pillow turns upside down, its rectangle of restChanging its sides, scraping the ears, ruffling your hair.The mosquito buzzes night’s happy mosquito songEnters the cave of your ear, restless on a thinking pillowThe rectangle of rest, outlying on a square of the night.Our cobra-snakes are a tautology and our flying planes.Luckily the women images are not of widow women.Our dreams continue, sleep to sleep, in repeat imagesTheir underlying vocabulary many times tautological.
53RoomJune 23, 2011(Everyone carries a room about inside him. This fact can even beproved by means of the sense of hearing. If someone walks fastand one pricks up one’s ears and listens, say in the night, wheneverything round about is quiet, one hears, for instance, the rattlingof a mirror not quite firmly fastened to the wall.- Kafka)Everyone has a room he carries about him, within himSurveyed vigorously, some times, by a friendly night insectOn its white wall, a tiny friend from an unfathomed nightThat makes wing noises of friendship in a proposed deathOn the wall, its carcass to be untraceable under our cot.We then carry our room with us, about us, into the balconyFor a free fall from the heights of vertigo into darkness.Everyone has this room in him and he carries it about him.Its whirring electric fan noises keep him from actively dyingIn the pool of darkness, in the vastness of night’s anonymity.We only die in others’ rooms, like the friendly night insect,That had come to die, in its immensity, on our white wall.
54The girl’s songJune 22, 2011Her song begins abruptly, being born and raisedIn a forest of words that has not seen the blue sky.Her lyrics are stewed in myth and grandma’s talesWhere fish remain to dry for ever and they are sevenAnd seven of king’s sons brought them hunting.It is all in an icy tingle of magic words, ice cubesOf music- notes on the soft downy back of a girlSlipping through the unreal magic of girl-thoughtAnd now she is slowly riding on your back with hairFlowing in an autumn wind of ripe fruitfulness.Her song trails off just like her girl’s abrupt bodyThat has floated into the room in a bottomless danceHer feet vanishing into the mosaic floor in its mistHer body’s contours merging in the morning sun.
55The grandmother’s narrativesJune 21, 2011Sitting luxuriously on a string cot in the moonA lovely grandmother spoke her long narrativesTo the little ones at her feet, as a soft liquid nightTouched their baby cheeks through many holesIn the moonlight that fell on the coconut’s head.The night bristled with unanswered questionsBut that will be for later and in the meantimeThe ghosts cannot wait in the washer-man’s ghatThat had clay pots seething with village laundryAnd the black stone on which he had beat clothesWas in fact a ghost by night, living in the palm .There were of course kings who had seven sonsAnd all of them went hunting and brought backSeven wet fishes that refused to dry in the sunA probe revealed the tiny red ant to be the culprit.The narratives went on till the night owl’s hoot.The herons settled down in the tree’s darknessBut their wings fluttered intermittently in sleep.