Making do

We make do with our day.
We do all our things right,
And a dog sleeps restfully.

We make do with a night
When we take light sleep
And enact small dreams.

We make do with eyelids
Not opening to our night.
They make do with light.

We make do with the day
And night when it closes
And there is another day.


May be the world is short
Of oxygen in its cylinders
As it disappears with hiss.

It has nothing to do with
Climate change speeches
Releasing  lots of oxygen.

Theirs is hiss they exhale
But our  baby heads burst
When not on all cylinders.

Cylinders sleep as babies
While the world’s oxygen
Lies buried in their sleep.

(Seventy babies die in a hospital due to a shortage of oxygen supply attributable to administrative malfeasance )

After the gentle poem

After this gentle poem,
There is waiting night
With  old dog’s howls

Dog is sick and in pain
And we must be gentle
With the sweetest dog

We call Bengali sweet
So full of loving drool,
Tail trembling in love.

After the gentle poem,
May gentle uncle take
Dog to a gentle death?

Rock formations

They were lying by the road
In random order as if strewn
All over country by stranger.

They had twisted bodies on
Souls ,formless by meaning
And joy and pain of a being.

They were not beings at all
But the random formations
By absent-minded Nature.

From the number of twists,
Some looked like thinking,
As if they were man-made.

(On visiting the fantastic rock formations of Oravakal in Andhra Pradesh)

Filling a blind spot

My eye would climb down
A gorge flowing with river

And it would spot a shrub
Leading a lonely existence

Somewhere down in slope.
I had the blind spot in eye

Mind would fill in, at point
Where the shrub led a life

As a sun and a shrub lived
Their complementary lives

Filling hole of a blind spot .
Wonder what a shrub fills

Its blind spot as it looks up
To find a human up there.

For all I see  in visual field
It might have been sheep.


We moved on from intimations
To whisper in the dead of night.

Old man poet would see a bone
Under pneumatic Russian bust.

Death danced in  timeless bone.
It was  intimations of mortality.

Grishkin had an underlined eye.
Beneath was dumb daffodil bulb

And wind woodshed through it
And laughter was raucous skull.

But over all the calculated bones
We see love and poems clinging

As if the calcium has still a fever
Much after pneumatic bliss goes.

(Reading T.S.Eliot’s poem “Whispers of Immortality”)


Pain is in neck and in there
You know and talk of sadly
As  blank memory of mom.

Mom was big black of pain,
A vast stretch of emptiness,
Extending the body’s limits.

Mom is a pain that is blank.
It cannot recollect its origin,
And has no future but itself.

(Reading Emily Dickinson’s poem “Pain has an element of blank”)

Living out of the dream

This living hand would type
To work out one more love,
In  sonnet’s rhyme scheme.

Suspend a living for a while
To let  hand lie cold in tomb
In  living mind’s daydream.

Then let red blood flow in it
Drained from dream’s heart.
We are living body’s dream.

Now take a living hand here.
Suspend the fucking dream.
Let us live out of the dream.

(reading John Keats’ poem “The living hand…”)

Rain on night

Not every man will remember
Rain on night with dog’s howl
And a sky as keepsake of light.

Cirrus and cumulus float a sky
While  sunset torches one day
And moon lets down its trees.

But not every man remembers
Dog’s howl at mom’s vacating
And memory turns a pale sky.

Dog howls at a midnight’s sky.
Rain falls on night for nothing
After men vacate their spaces.

( reading Mark Strand’s poem The End)

River in the gorge

The earth swelled and sank
Below  rough hard exterior

Soon all was red in the hills.
River was green tree snake

That neatly fitted sunny tail
In depths of a gorge below.

Our hair would  swirl at  top
In sheer fright of its depths.

(At Gandikota in Andhra Pradesh where the river Pennar cuts a breath taking gorge in the rocks of Erramalai hills)