From the sea up, through dogs
Descending on the noisy barks,

By lighthouse no more for light
But of broken mortar and steel,

I enter garden of morning park,
Walking on the fallen almonds

Half eaten by red- beaked bird.
Fallen leaves are gems of a fall.

They fall in ripe fallen almond
Falling to the June’s mild wind

Fallen a bit short of yearly rain
In haze that blinded rain’s fail.

A wind only stirred birds’ songs
Their beaks red with fruit flesh.

Rose bush

After poet cummings of no capitals,
I recall rose petals shrink my dawn-

A nostalgic knicker boy from school,
Nursing rose thorn wounds in shirt.

One time shirt wore hawaii flowers
Which were blood stains from hurt.

Hurt had no capitals,like cummings
And carried forward a fire festival

And a love of a mother who fussed
Over the gash like front lobotomy.

Rose bush flourished with its stars
That lay sprinkled on tree shadow.

Thorns are necessary for beauty’s
Heady perfume in old morning air.

Cummings, you wrote of rose tree.
I recall dropped petals at sun-rises

With the dew still clinging to them.
I had not even heard of you, then.

(reading Poem by e.e.cummings)

I prefer

I prefer her less daunting spelling,
To a music inside the poet’s name

That time of rain’s moths to stars
Like coal particles borne by wind

Or tiny water particles swarming
A window glass,making specters

Of men against a mountain of sea.
I prefer insects of coal’s particles

Embellishing whiteness of a wall
Like flowers on dead Polish poet.

I prefer flies flying around death.
They are free flying like a poetry.

I prefer a “I Prefer” for freedom
Of words whizzing past like flies

I prefer to think out possibilities
With my words buzzing like flies.

(after the poem “Possibilities” by Wislawa Szymborska )

The ritual

At the river , we do our ritual,
When river is shallow on bed
But words make up for water.

We speak to dead in Sanskrit,
Hurl our dusty words at a sky,
Into a translucent emptiness.

Our men, living in the deaths,
Follow no language of living,
Only antic words of the dead.

We look up a sky for nothing,
For our people to look down ,
That our emptiness returns,

As in hills piled one on other,
We shout to the craggy walls
Our hollow words to return.


Awed by humongous sea at dawn
The friendly little bird just awoke.

Sea and bird are chants of prayer.
They wake soft light in our sleep.

You forget you are still in a sleep,
Dreaming words, about your sea.

Sea is humongous bird in a sleep
As you offer yourself up to dawn.

A sea follows clockwork of boats.
Boats they offer prayer for fishes.

Fishes are birds offering prayers,
Inside a humongous sea of death.

Death is a chant coming my way,
While I sit here in prayer, by sea.

Staying indoors

You are now in seventy’s indoors.
In June, the night proceeds apace

In June , a sky burns blue and hot.
Landscape lies dug up in the park.

It is now your morning’s indoors .
You see no maroon leaves falling.

Park gardener gestures no leaves.
You have none indoors of pocket.

A wind is loose on string like bird,
That ties the indoors to outdoors

When a sky is indoors to balcony
Falling through a glass of window.

The almond sheds maroon leaves
In indoors of a dug up landscape,

The sea lives outdoors of the park
Beyond the wall ,with washer men

As washer men beat their clothes,
To an indoors rhythm of wet beat

As in the indoors of an orchestra.
They beat their daily lives at a sea.

The world lives indoors by the sea.
The flesh lives and dies in indoors.

The sea lives indoors of your head
Till you are indoors of all outdoors.

Moon’s sad steps

Cawing at the dawn is bunch of crows
Waking after the sad moon of a night.

Poet’s sad steps recall a sadder moon
Cleaned and fine cut in cotton clouds.

Moon stays sunk in the far sea below
And the poet forgot to get up for piss

An hour before a sea would wake up.
Are not nights when we are sleeping ?

Day would wake up all the way to fish.
Fish are not found due to overfishing.

Men’s cuss words are day’s dead fish
Causing red anger in hungry bellies.

Are not days where we are cursing in?
After we are no more larking at dawn

There shall be days after days in a sea
And waves will roll on in endless time.

(After Philip Larkin’s poems ‘Days” and “Sad Steps“)


“Often I sit down to work at my drawing board, at my typewriter. All of a sudden my joy is gone. I feel tired of it all because, I think, ‘What’s the use?’ Today we are, tomorrow dead. We are born and don’t know why. …Why? And we die, and no one will ever know that we have been born.” — Djuna Barnes

It is the string that makes a wall dirty.
It floats behind glass like bird in wind

With the sea vapor in the air and coal
That comes wafting in dust from port.

It paints morbid patch of dirt on wall.
All through night sea slept immortally

Through morbid moments of deaths.
Will the night leave its morbid poems

At death of the turtle in sea stomach?
Will the string relentlessly dirty a wall

As death dirties body, pristine in soul
For a body to disappear behind glass?

There will be other bodies at a dawn
As a string dirties wall another night.

Side gate

On most days, I take side gate.
It is better to walk against wind

And avoid sight of old destitute
And sleeping dog,next to body .

You dodge vulgar tea slurpings
And plastic tea cup sproutings.

Here the sea opens to eternity.
You can hear its hissing sound

(On the other , blue mountain
Stands sentry at sea’s eternity)

Here moss grows like our years
On the rocks of previous night.

I look across the rocks at a sun
Just sprouting like plastic cup.

As if sipping tea at the horizon,
The sea hurls a cup ,when done.