Inner ears are rich in stone.
I hear the world with stone.

It is my canaliths that keep
The balance of this world.

Now they are clumped up.
The world seems tottering.

Before I go from the world
I like to keep it in balance.



Sad steps

And the poet has returned
From messy midnight piss.

He parts his thick curtains
To see moon perfect clean.

The youthful moon is clean
And crisp , in cloudless sky.

There is spring in its steps
Like in poet’s young times.

Now his old   steps feel  sad,
After messy visit to the loo.

(Reading Philip Larkin’s poem Sad Steps)

Holes for salvation

With our questions about salvation
We  had approached house mason,

Who made eleven holes to escape.
(We had nine each on our bodies)

A cloth made a hole each in throat
From which we freed our breaths.

We broke from houses of   bodies
And freed all nothings from them

We are grateful to a house  mason
Who made our salvation possible.

( Eleven members of a family in Delhi died in a mass ritualistic suicide by hanging apparently to attain salvation. Their house wall was found fitted with eleven pipes opening outside )

The crow song

A crow is hoarse with singing.
Our TV antenna dish is rusted

By a sea which is across road,
As crow flies, as a saying goes.

The crow sits on our antenna
Distorting our morning news.

It has its own morning news
Of a relative’s visit in the day.

Sea is across as the crow flies
And mercifully the crow flies.

Old woman

And now we know why she sits,
With her back to that red wall.

Because life is so full of blood,
Like a just risen sun on the sea

So visitors map her ripe body
Against the fullness of her life

Bursting in her riverine cheeks
Like apple squirting with juice.

Woman, live an apple ripeness
As long as  apple’s season lasts.

Parting the air

Mark saw the man outside
And he dug  tunnel to him.
It is a hole to make a whole.

Now Mark walks in a field
And finds his own absence,
Very hole to make a whole.

He parts the air and helps it
Become a whole by his lack.
One keeps  whole by a hole.

(Reading Mark Strand’s poem Keeping Things whole)


Dreams are repeated schemes,
A plane crash or snake slough
That hinted a snake’s presence
Or bush that moved like bear
On the never ending horizon

With no escape from distance.
You can’t run away from sleep.
All you do to breath is cry out
A shout loud enough to wake
You from the horizon of sleep.

A shout is antidote to  failure.
The fear should stop a dream
So dream may end in waters
Where we all had come from
In a belly where we once hid.