Tate loves his clothespins and a line
And clean laundry waving a breeze.
Our own lies within a window’s sky
And sky turns pure purple dripping
And water drips on a grass dyeing.
We die as dyeing is over on a pate.
It is Tate’s clothesline and woman
And grass dying purple on clothes.
But like Tate we are sate on a pate,
We no more dyeing before we die.
We are now autumn- gold in pate.
Clothesline is missing and woman.
(Referring to James Tate’s poem At the Clotheline – in a tribute to Tate(1943-2015)
Poetry is words come up from a night,
Very birds that briefly wake up to cry
And go back to sleep till proper dawn,
Chimes that sound brief wakefulness
They are the sounds of our continuity,
Uninterrupted life flow through death.
They are the rain moths poised to die
On our lighted panes time and again.
Every body needs a mirror
Till a mirror holds no body.
The sky is the sea’s mirror
Holding a recent blue body.
A bathtub may be our sea
But holds no mirror to self.
Bodies are silhouettes lost
In fog on bathroom mirror.
(upon the passing of a bright Bollywood star in a death by drowning in a hotel’s bathtub in Dubai)
Child shines in a bright eye
Over atavistic nose in face.
She smiles sweetly running
In heaps of autumn leaves.
The child has given parents
To the hills and their clouds.
Red eye lives in my camera
Or may be in a decrepit eye.
Or in nature’s maternal eye
In a heap of almond leaves.
( About a sweet orphan child adopted by us in SOS Village )
Some men are of no bodies
But light’s shadows at dawn
Pointing their vague fingers
At strange objects in far sea.
Others live a death moment,
As dead turtles of live crows.
Some are just fishes caught
In the fisher men’s moment.
A few are silhouettes at sea
Floating into its inner heart.
Others are rocks on beach,
Flaunting their green moss.
At midnight, you wake up for a piss.
You hear sea’s hum in the window.
It is the sea’s narrative where it left
Yesterday and world went on usual.
Sea’s waves fuse world’s narratives
As single indistinguishable prattle,
A meaningless gibberish emerging
From a world’s non sequitur events.
We’ll like to master the act
Of disappearing in silence,
As a stone hurled in pond
That makes no frog-leaps,
Like tiny red banyan fruit
Drops on scummed pond.
In our fact ,we disappear
A stone never appeared.