We have heard woman poems,
Their envelope licking poems.
We have smelt woman poems
Pickled and dried in a hot sun
For future sons’ consumption.
We have seen woman poems
In the tired eyes of old men’s
Bodies from woman’s bones,
Woman poems in a brass pot.
They are best poems on water.
It is not enough to die
From this world and lie.
We are to talk about it ,
From our graves to sky.
A chorus of our speech
Shall rise to empty sky
At night as wind rustles
Inside dark pipal leaves.
Some times we speak as
The whoosh of feathers
Falling all at once from
Many flying birds of air
But we speak mostly to
Ourselves in our nights.
It is not enough to have
Lived but after we die
We are to talk about it
From wherever we lie.
(Based upon conversation between Estragon and Vladimir in “Waiting for Godot” by Samuel Beckett)
We pick in dirt fallen flowers
For gods to smell a darkness.
We pick our dirt on our faces
From children in their tatters.
They smile through their dirt
And pluck flowers from nails.
Their nails have dirt in them
And they smile in their nails.
My own thing is this very empty space,
Since nobody has claimed this as own
Like the dog on the leash claiming his ,
Shouting at a tree’s silences in corners.
The cricket claims his own in the bush
And around a forgot house on the lake,
Now a grand view of buzz- mosquitoes.
A poet is buzz- creature who owns all
The piece of unreal estate at midnight.
Broken verse is his document of title.
Light always grew less in the eyes
Crawling to their blurred corners
There are nights diluting to dawn,
Nights hung over, eyes deceived,
What makes street moth suicidal.
Feelings are lizards less tongue-tied
And they stick out tongues in open.
In wilderness we are tongue-open.
Back in homes we are tongue-tied.
In a wilderness we stick out words
To catch our meanings at random.
Your pain in the butt is a random thing
And no god chuckles in private triumph.
Don’t you put blame at some one’s door.
Double vision is meant to confuse eyes,
Not a causal phenomenon but casualty.
Shit can hit anyone, anytime, any nose.
(Following Thomas Hardy’s unhappy poems)
The world is in your stomach
Like a demon who would eat
With excess acid to digest it.
The acid would get to a head
And cause the world to whirl.
World is a niggling headache.
The world may be perforation
Inside a stomach of erupting
Cells spurging on its rebellion.
World is white squiggly mass
Inside an oyster in the ocean.
Break it to find no pearl in it.
The word keeps me in the state
Of boundedness to a sentence .
Mountain child becomes born
And turns a wavering coconut,
That dallies with the sea wind .
The child born to a mountain
Points to a new bird of plane.
Look there is now a new bird !
Planes are here in a language.
I am waiting for anchor word.
The word fails as poetry gains.
I am anchored to the nothing.
Mountains melt and turn river.
River flows to the big wide sea.
The mountain child turns sea.
We will now go in sea’s mouth
Where sea eats a sky’s horizon
And sun when he comes later.
Sea has gaping demon mouth
In which a poetry’s truth goes
Along with lake’s tenderness .
All these blue boats probe sea
For bodies, live bodies of fish
They eat to get bodies going.
Poetic truth lies in sea’s myth.
The poet enters sea’s mouth
To come out with a half-truth.