By the sea we live a literal life
While fish live inside the sea,
Their life is literal like our life
And turtle’s on way to lay eggs
For hatching life’s explosions.
Turtle’s is literal life like crow,
Made for other in literalness
A literal death of a lateral life.
Fishermen cast their first net
While sun is still a literal life.
By sea, we live our literal life
Where stone dragon sprawls.
A literal life is hollow in hole
And smiling its fiery mouth.
We live down our childhood
The childhood in heads gray,
Stomachs full with a hollow.
We talk of a hole in its snake
The old snake full of hissing
Living a literal life of a hole
And filling hole with poems
As if poems are the real life
And childhood’s is memory
Past a boring literal old age,
Closer to death like a turtle.
You are looking ,back and forth,
Over shoulders of a sea’s breeze
Walking footpath pushing hard
Against your feet in its squares.
You ride storm in your stomach
At the thought of loss and grief.
You guess hindsight of walkers.
Who shut up their hind sights,
By headphones of a hard metal
They do not follow a sea beside
That stretches a vast hindsight.
Waves occur in spasms in belly.
The sea hides endless hindsight
Tucked away at the back of sky.
It is repository of all hindsight.
Look away and muffle its hum.
Hear the walker’s headphones,
The song dribbling from them.
Words are stuck in the throat
Rising from a nausea in belly,
To puke out into a silly mass
In mess of bad composition,
Smelly and gibberish on back
Of the futility of speak effort.
Bear a pain like woman does
Before composing you inside.
It is how you were composed
By woman in existential mess
And words formed at fingers
At the end of long navel rope.
Words are now decomposed
As if you are back in woman.
You babble words ceaselessly
Decomposing the dark inside
Speaking to the night outside.
Bear pain like a woman does
In a darkness above the roof
Beyond borders of existence.
(Phillip Booth’s poem “Like a woman” hints an awareness of the onset of Alzheimer’s disease in himself from which he would die later)
After Emily ,we talk of his sleep,
Long and long and now famous
By thoughts of malt and whisky
And tall glass of throaty ghazal.
Others’ sleeps may turn famous
By the tortilla they ate for lunch
Their sleeps are long and lidless
On obituary stones of face book.
This one shall be famous by God
Or rather lack of God in a throat
In praise of smooth fine whisky,
A ghazal singing it’s glory to sky.
( Paying homage to a dear colleague who passed yesterday- with echoes from Emily Dickinson’s poem”A Long Long Sleep”)
The crows are awake, at dawn
And there seems another day,
While crows repeat their caws
Leaving prose sounds behind.
Crows sing no more sky songs,
But state fact of life and death.
The sea continues poem prose
In rhythm against mossy rocks.
Ridley turtles are not back yet
With their deaths on high seas.
That was pure poetry in prose
For crows to recite in a chorus.
Crows are death’s prose poems
Their raucous cries state facts.
Yearly crows who were moms
Come here no more nowadays
As they no more eat rice balls
Offered by us in enchantment
Who have ceased to be poems
After passage of rivers of time.
Body persists with mornings,
With sea waving inside them.
The nights persist by the sea
Inside its quiet invisible hum.
The eagle persists with its cry
And swoops down on beach.
Luck prevails in elasticity that
Aliveness persists in the body.
Sea persists with its elasticity.
Waves persist with repetition.
It is luck that persists with life
That can snap any time of sea.
May you put out your boats,
Their bodies high on waves,
Their backs blessed for sail,
The wind is safely on backs.
May fishes hide their bodies
In sea’s deepest of shadows
And escape treacherous net,
Deaths in strange stomachs.
Now understanding is at sea
The impossibility of blessing
Both innocent fish and boats
Together on the backs in sea.
In spite of myself, the daily sun
Would warm the turquoise sea
In flamboyance of January sun
Not harsh nor soft in shimmer.
January ninth was a beginning
That recurs till all my years die.
And each of my years, I will die
And each time I die is doorway
And each time I lie is doorway
And it is tubes and a loss of air
In spite of everything, because
A tube sticks out from a belly.
(On the birthday of my son who passed a year ago)
Baby is a natural thing with eyes
Fixed on things, a head turning.
Her hands go up and beat an air.
Her eyes flit like a morning bird
Screeching and pecking at things,
The way eyes fall and float away
Trying to garner piece of world.
Her gurgle is like natural brook
Trying to catch world in its eye.
Baby looks in the eyes of things
Determines their place in world,
Fits them in a scheme of things.
All things considered we hope
The boy who strung his neck
From the fan by sister’s jeans
Has seen a star above the fan
The star in January’s almanac
Bright and of an eternal glory.
His ancestor Sirius was a boy
Who turned star on dad’s lap.
He still flickers hurt like boy
Deprived of dad’s royal love.
We hope boy’s luminescence
Will start to flicker like Sirius
After jeans are brought down
And he gets due place in sky.