We have no mirror in shack.
We have no walls to hold up.

The eyes shall be my mirror,
By flowing mountain stream.

The mountain holds stream
And I look in its glassy eyes.

Mountain teases the stream,
Have you looked at yourself?

We have no mirror to stream
It is too fast and too flowing.

We have no walls to stream
To hold up a mirror to face.

We have no eyes to the face.
The glass in them is broken.

Mean while, there is no face
To see in eyes or in stream.


Poems do not come like leaves

In absence of leaf-like words,
We may hit a city’s pot-holes

A city’s body wears for leaves.
City eats holes in its stomach.

It has eyes of holes in a skull.
City has wind hissing in them.

Crane has eyes set in chassis.
Woman falls to pot stomach.

City wears holes on its body
Death has eyes set in chassis.

In media res

At midnight we are right at the center
A medias in res adaptation of old story

A long haul of a distant tireless forest
Peopled by honey bears hiding darkly

In bushes, with the mountains sleeping
At the furthest view of seeing nothing

An opaqueness common to all dreams.
You forget you are in an opaque night

And dreaming at a black core of night.
Your creatures are shrouded in a dark

As bears that may yet descend the hills
When you are sleeping on a river bank

With sticks by side to shoo them away
If and as they descend on a sugarcane.

But at the end of stillness is sea’s hum.
A brine of vast possibility rises to moon

By aggregation of darkness in thought,
A point you are neither here nor there.


Bearded man is old songster
Who gives me a grass song.

Song grows here and there
In old men and young men

And child asks what is grass
To the blue grassy sassy sky

God’s scented handkerchief
Sassily dropped on purpose.

Grass is my self’s multitudes
Like hill woman’s grass head.

(Reading Walt Whitman’s poem Song of Myself)

The intrepid dreamer

The intrepid dreamer wrought
Several images in continuation
The flying water and snow hills

And the fallen peach blossom
That had to move with waters.
The lights glistened forgetfully

Yesterday over fried potatoes.
It was just a whiff of thought
The white bones in a clay-pot.

Old coat

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

You poetize 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 saucer boats of Hampi

Timeless stories sit like monkeys
In the middle of fast flowing river
And circular boats swirl with men.

Boats are circles of moving swirls
Just like stones that live in circles
Of the water flowing round them.

Boats are helpful monkey soldiers
Who further epic stories of kings.
Circular boats flow like old stories.