A sound is broken and colors diffused in a sky.
There is the body gone with mountain breeze,
Broken from bodies, away from their touching.
Let us all sing broken words into an empty sky
About body’s silhouette vanishing in its sunset
Like broken song, on a breeze from mountains .
Let the thick eye glasses it wore, be shattered
With broken world from a detached eye retina.
Things past are not they actual were,
Under a patina -like copper’s change
When the water brought a dark stain
And smelled the inside of old temple.
There, God stood with bow and arrow
And the flames lit his blue royal smile.
A shaved widow -head lived in temple
With no one except God in blue finery.
God was husband in her shaved head.
He would smell old copper pot waters.
The patina lingered in our child minds
And lives in our present syncretic years.
Things past are what actually were not
But a patina of time we noted on things
As poems calculated in our small hours
Like green stains on copper water pots.
Seems old sun had cast and gone.
Hair is gone, after we let it down,
Its shadows replaced by new air.
The fan whirls over ticklish pate
Stirring listless stale summer air
Hardly a springtime celebration.
An old fan would hurl languidly,
A warm electric air to our faces
And stir old passions , shadows
Long gone, materiality of things
The old sun had cast and gone.
The hair is gone, after let down,
Its shadows replaced by new air.
The fan whirls on hairless head
Stirring listless stale summer air
Hardly a springtime celebration.
“Poetry is the language of intensity. Because we are going to die, an expression of intensity is justified.”
After that ,we are a because we are all
That is there to it to a nocturnal poetry
On the birthday falling on 9th January
In a face book entry ,which just a stub.
Face book holds in bosom our secrets
And the one now in whatsapp privacy
Our secrets stay buried in a sea’s hum
And in a darkness of marine intensity
And fish swim in intensity under moon
Because they are going to die by a boat
Finally, we are going to die after poetry
With intensity justified as an expression.
At the day’s end ,there is light twitch of body
A contortion of a soul and an occupied mind
And a white wall rises with the sun on its top
And the trees have dis-appeared to overlook.
A job is upgraded to a nay-say recession plan
Now in fear of not being there as a sun rises.
Hold on ,we have multiple reasons to vibrate
As fears grow shaky like several thumbprints
One on the other , to reinforce a sleep- heavy
Night’s ruin of dreaming state by mosquitoes.
Use your hand to swat them ,flying on cheeks.
Their blood is yours in the veins, full of flight.
Take for instance what happens
After street lights are turned on
And windows are points of light.
Bodies bustle on their business
As if bodies will not be replaced.
Stop screech sound for an effect.
In body’s kitchen pressure cooker
Whistles from its pent up feelings.
In a body’s kitchen , many vessels
Make empty noises for their effect.
Three years before that poet was born
I had made my appearance in a cradle
And at 25 , I might have had 1974 days
With a glimpse of the sunny gol muhur
Blazing outside , there were no mouths
Closing each others’ but to speak from.
Now I wedge pillow back of headboard
And listen to its rhythmic claps at 3 AM.
I write similar verse here in this corner.
As midnight quietly closes on darkness
Sleep may wake up as a poem closes off
The 1974 memories towards new dawn.
There are termites in noisy headboard
And sooner or later ,there shall be trails
Of white wood powder of my memories
Of these years from all the 3 AM recalls.
(After reading the poem “Days of ‘74” by Mark Jarman)
In dream we recollect pieces of a broken world
For the after-life of body promised, an illusion
Of seeing, a rainbow now shimmers , now gone .
The world’s whole remains shattered to this day
A sound broken in parts, a color diffused in sky.
There is the body gone with a mountain breeze
Broken from our selves away from our touching.
Let us sing in broken words, of the shattered sky
The silhouette of body disappearing in a sunset
A song broken from breeze, a broken mountain .
God, make no more our kind
With their foreheads already
Sealed ,signed and delivered-
You alone know a calligraphy.
There is a God in every dawn
When we wake to split crows.
Humans deserve a better fate,
They cannot be fated to arrive
With calligraphy on fore head.
If you will let this be our verse
We hoist a plastered leg or two
In air ,as if we are daring you.
We are not asking for a proof
As you exist in our scepticism .
The hibiscus 