Clothesline and woman

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 words

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.


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.