This night’s calming sounds
Are of sea’s waves with gulls
Gulls being a forgetful wave,

A kind of oblivion you loved
As by Ashbery , since passed
Beyond anyone’s conjecture.

It is difficult to open a poem
Come inside to hear sea gulls
Trespassing your trespasses.

Gulls are waves of a thought
A late night music composed
And now it is raining outside.

We are composing our wave
The poem about an oblivion,
The sea where all poets went.

(reading John Ashbery’s poem Not Beyond All Our Conjecture)



Equanimity lies in a zen koan
Contradicting in itself gently.

One never knows if the mom
Should  be kissed good night

And you be called a moronic
Sissy on a first day of school

Or some such catch at throat
Where all you have is a lump.

One has to fight for dharma.
But violence goes against it.

We constantly negate selves.
But we are just being polite.

If you are to the left of center
You are left to right’s mercy.

When you lie dead in a room,
You must be duly composed

Till worms catch your throat,
Make you a bit decomposed.

Deep down

Back home , we commit nuisances.
We love humanity in a deep down
When death is  comfort like mom.

We have not heard of Rohingyas.
Perhaps they have not heard of us
As we both keep pace with death.

We often commit Cummings type
Nuisances in poetry’s backwaters
Both in capitals and in lower case.

We are enormously small humans.
We love humanity in  deep down
Finding death  comfort like mom.

(reading e.e.cummings poem”humanity I love you”)

Now that I know

Now that I know a poet had lived
And died while in a cave of trees,

That a woman had snakes in hair.
She would turn you stone to look.

A mere looking turns you  stone,
You must not go near  tamarind

It  had snake tresses in its nights
And is home to childhood ghost.

Now that knowledge turns stone
And death lives in  cave of trees.

All poetry sings is  stony silence
A body turned stone by looking.

Times one thinks of death

We are awaiting the call of doctor
Whose death is buried in that wall

And my own, a subtext, in the mag
Touches a wall ,where sockets live

And phones die numbers of times
And the newspaper dies with men

Whose epithelial cells die in a lab
And sodium dies in adrenal gland

Every thing dies of something else
But summer fly crawls regardless.

A sun exists to live ,death to death
And the number of times one dies.

Mortality lives a morning to night
When a mortality dies in its sleep

And a  sleep dies in my mortality ,
In a number of times I think of it.

Dreaming dreams

In between , you may wake up
But please persist with dream.

Persist with remembered copy
Half representative of  dream.

After some time you’ll get used
To persevering with the dream

Inside very act of your waking
In between to persever with it.

You wouldn’t know difference
Between persisting and dream

Experience touchy -feely things
In between diaphanous layers

Of persistence and dream stuff
Till you start dreaming dreams.

So many legs

We list our possibilities, frayed in corners
In  a smudgy, crawly writing, end to end

Like ants in line that have lost their way
To the edge of a wall, shouts lost in legs.

Our dying list is bucket list, a corner list
And we make ant-lines, lost in our ways

Our white stuff, on our backs all the time.
Many ant legs, we lose a count, so many.


Now you were asleep , now awake.
You have less time for daily  poem.
Morning’s  birds will call anytime.

So be like poet who flies and sings
With his awkward flames of words
Beating out gold bar half wrought.

You versify  your awkward journey
While flying as the people in street
Look up at your coat tails flapping.

Be an old coat ,with  insides  gone,
To scare away birds to their skies
With your broken pot at the head.

(Reading Osip Mandelstam’s poem self-portrait)


The rain poured on the station
And people poured into a mass.

Men turned petals on a bridge
And bridge a dark slimy bough.

Bodies went in heap on bridge.
They belonged to daily ghosts

That flashed past on other train
As apparitions on a foot board.

Humanity seemed a huge mass,
As basket of plucked out petals.

(In a stampede of commuters on a narrow railway footbridge in Mumbai 22 people died and several injured. The image of the petals to describe a crowd is from Ezra Pound’s short poem “In a station of the Metro”)

Growing slow

Till 1965 ,the poet wondered
What he was thinking about,

And got a rain coming in fast
Choking drain with dead trees

About woman with road maps
And breasts like monuments.

In 1965 ,he would stop asking
When I was still child this high

Never knew such a poet lived,
Who had never known I lived

Afraid to grow up to be dead
And be dead for ever, in 1965.

Now grown old and be dead
I fear what I am asking about

Because poet who was asking
Grew so slow that he stopped.

Reading poem Psychoanalysis: An Elegy by Jack Spicer (1925-1965)