You squat with the stone tiger
To look anonymous in crowd.
Nobody knows you in cosmos.
And the traffic makes a bustle,
With a stone tiger that stands
By you growling in its entrails.
The stone tiger burns a bright
Ignoring kids riding it bravely.
Tigers are not afraid of horns
And to sniff the fumes of cars.
Sit by stone tiger delightfully
Anonymous in a traffic jungle.
By tiger you look anonymous
Like fish in sea nobody knows.
You are looking back and forth,
Over shoulders of sea’s breeze.
You guess hindsight of walkers.
They shut up their hind sights,
By headphones of a hard metal.
They do not follow a sea beside.
The sea hides endless hindsight
Tucked away at the back of sky.
It is repository of all hindsight.
Look away and muffle its hum.
Hear the walker’s headphones,
The song dribbling from them.
Words stay stuck in the throat
Rising from a nausea in belly,
In a mess of bad composition,
And a futility of speak effort.
Words are now decomposed
As if you are back in woman.
You babble words ceaselessly
Decomposing the dark inside
Speaking to darkness outside.
Bear pain like a woman does,
In darkness outside the room
Beyond borders of existence.
(Phillip Booth’s poem “Like a woman” hints an awareness of the onset of Alzheimer’s disease in himself from which he would die later)
After Emily ,we talk of his sleep,
Long and long and now famous
By thoughts of malt and whisky
And tall glass of throaty ghazal.
This one shall be famous by God
Or rather lack of God in a throat
In praise of smooth fine whisky,
A ghazal singing it’s glory to sky.
( Paying homage to a dear colleague who passed yesterday- with echoes from Emily Dickinson’s poem”A Long Long Sleep”)
Crows sing no more sky songs,
But state fact of life and death.
The sea continues poem prose
In rhythm against mossy rocks.
Ridley turtles are not back yet
With their deaths on high seas.
That was pure poetry in prose
For crows to recite in a chorus.
Crows are death’s prose poems
Their raucous cries state facts.
May you put out your boats,
Their bodies high on waves.
May fishes hide their bodies
In sea’s deepest of shadows
And escape treacherous net,
Deaths in strange stomachs.
I have to resolve a problem-
An impossibility of blessing
The innocent fish and boats
Both on their backs in a sea.
Baby is natural thing with eyes
Fixed on things, a head turning,
Eyes flit like a bird in morning
The way birds fall to float away.
Her gurgle is like natural brook
Trying to catch world in its eye.
Baby looks in the eyes of things,
Fits them in her world of things.
All things considered we think
The boy who strung his neck
From the fan by sister’s jeans
Has seen a star above the fan.
His ancestor Sirius was a boy
Who turned star on dad’s lap.
Now the boy’s luminescence
Will start to flicker like Sirius
After jeans are brought down
And he gets due place in sky.
There was a white presence
Flooding kitchen’s memory.
Grandmother ,a white light,
Has wiped a sink gleaming
And a dishrag hung on rod.
This dishrag contained all,
As it went stiff and heavy,
With its thirty years of time.
We are properly enlightened,
As new red crackers teach us
The way we live our new year.
A night’s silence cracks in two
Vertically, from the sky to sea
As street lights flicker happily.
The old years’ habits die hard.
Now we make poems at night.
It does not matter, if we don’t.
In new year , crows will hope
For defunct turtles to wash up,
As in the defunct years gone by.