A velvet stuff comes on again
After the first rain while earth
Crawls with an underground,
Fragile feet ,on soft feel-good.
Apparently there is no death
And the poet says so in April
That brings on yearly spring
With sun on a burning neck.
This while you are lying poet
Concerned about a red velvet.
It will be picked up by a bird.
You pat yourself on a beauty.
A beauty is apparent in April
And the bush is singing as if.
You are lying about a beauty.
It is death on a stinging neck.
We are uncles with our lights low
And no one goes there after dusk
After our old nights are remnants.
Home is littered with plastic cups,
The remnants of many old nights.
Old lights lie low and dim-witted.
Old words are twilight’s remnants.
Old uncles lie low and dim-witted.
They turn remnants of old poems.
Hope is fistful of bird ticking,
One which is which, not who.
One which comes back to be
Just underwear, every night
Which you wear under skin
Hang to dry on a clothesline.
Which is child of black bird
Squirms as I enter its space
Which shivers before flower
Sucks a little left over honey,
Which is child in a waiting
Knowing a shadow behind
Yet thinks it does not exist
Being a willing ass of itself.
Cumins is, for ever ,at comings
And goings,a lover of humanity
Poem maker in the lap of death.
He doubles “e’ as in a “screetch”
Who is highly under-capitalized,
Holding secret life in his pants.
He holds secrets of us in them,
Making poems in a death’s trap
Making poetry up like woman.
In very smallness of our hours
We make up poems and a stuff
Between a coming and a going.
Until we drop our pants, where
We hold a life, ticking in poems
A poem maker’s in lap of death.
( On reading a poem entitled ‘humanity I love you” by e.e.cumins)
I have come away from a crowd
A crowd of strangers in hospital
In dark corner of coffee machine
In the old lift slowly wending up
Like old men shuffling their feet,
Gliding like new stranger cloud
A crowd of strangers of mystery
Faces mixing their mystery pasts
With my present, steeped in dark
A dark of coffee machine corner
Little knot of dark around pillars.
Women in red hospital uniforms
Pushing wheelchairs, in and out ,
Their pasts mixed with present.
Old doctor not yet shuffling feet,
He who stands on men’s bones.
So many death has not undone,
Who flow in a slow moving lift.
First, you have one ,and now
You subtract a two from one.
And divide it by any number
You get to meet your infinity
A rail track destined to meet
Its self ,at some point in time.
That is old spiel of rail tracks
We were scared would meet.
We have delicious possibility
If it’s meeting at some infinity
At infinity of soap and water
In the endless snake of flesh
Where it will gurgle and blow
And fly its ash on world things
Cover all our faces with death
And we meet self dangerously .
Body is between a void and gas
Through solid and liquid states.
Body is just state as body states.
Body lives and protests in nude
On a lawn like a grassy creature
In green overwhelming society.
Body lives in its brackets closed.
Body states in fluids from holes
And sheds clothes and between.
Body is all states and no thingy.
Body is in its interregnum state
Before final brackets are closed.
If Maggie the poetess says it is so
It has got to be so about iguanas.
They must be dreaming of sand.
A fistful of a bird ,on clothesline,
Sleeps, all night ,like underwear
Hanging to dry by balcony’s sun.
The fistful of bird passes through
Its rapid eye dreams ,despite my
Switching light bulb on its sleep.
Like iguanas and bird on a wire
Maggie has dreams about a dad
Who lay dreaming outside body.
All things and creatures lay still,
As they dream from their bodies
In intense rapid eye movements.
Shakespeare had all his props
Through all life’s seven stages.
Machine had whirred off stage
And all was green in the wings.
A prompter had all the words.
All you do is just rant and rave.
But uncle , you make me actor
Without rehearsal before stage
With no Shakespeare to speak
A grandiloquence from wings.
I cannot take back my silliness.
I have to live my seven stages
A compressed part in minutes.
I can’t afford to go red in face
For sounds I make out of tune.
Dear uncle, you make me cry
And laugh in the same times,
I forget a proper grease-paint
My paint makes me look silly
As I move darkened eyebrows
It is so difficult to improvise,
Guessing what play is about.
(On reading a beautiful poem “Life while- you- wait” by Wisława Szymborska)
When a son wrote his dad’s obit,
He would write mostly of debris
Of a dusty table with old papers,
Daughters on dowries and debt.
Could not a son be sentimental
To talk about how big eyes are?
All those dearest who are dead
Have large beauty eyes in faces.
Why does son remember father
On a paper cone with groceries?
A father’s sons are eye’s apples
But son’s fathers are eye coins?
House was leaning on coconut
Through a son’s growing years?
Can son not hold a pretty moon
In bent coconut frond to a sky?
Why blame the dead eyes now
For being a Caesar at his birth?
Aren’t we all with no headstone,
Our lives not even parenthesis?
Because we are a burning type
Our fires are cremated with us.
(On reading a beautiful poem “Obituary” by A.K.Ramanujan)