Poetry remains

You recall the day the lady died
From your poetry , for that matter
Everyone’s poetry or lady’s poetry
If she had one, as poets gloated.

It seems everyone dies after poetry
And poetry remains after the lady,
And frank poet about her remains,
During and after nameless poets.

Bodies and chocolate

The young actress by her back
Announces style,like chocolate
In an advertisement ,in which
Surprise ice handfuls get flung
At lovers before chocolate bars.
They love bodies and chocolate.

Our backs are shiny with balms
We advertise for domestic love.
Our woman’s eyes fall so softly,
Her back between us and bones.

Cow dust

Our twilight blinks a transitory day
A moving shadow on a series of hills
Like overcast eagle looking for prey.

This is the time of cows return dust
The hoofs lightly askew in earth hour
To home,to night advancing in moon.


Nothing seemed a translation
Without an original, the poem
Unboxed without its contents.
Here we do with a translation,
The poet making it all happen,
From nothing ,only empty air
But the air is nothing but life,
Life at its breath and happen,
A translation without original.

Buck does not stop

There they love their animals
Film stars no less, in a jungle.
When black buck dies by a star
Arguments go by black gowns
About death’s entertainment,
Their cogency tested in silver,
In sweaty summer civil courts.
What shines is black and buck.

(A law case under wild life protection laws has been going on against a film star for over fifteen years for having killed a black buck.)

Indian ink

We were born in cloth, our valley
A sad tale of tears, of lower pain.
But we are permanent ink, Indian.

We are sketches, thickened outlines,
Walking silhouettes at orange dusks.
Born in cloth we are permanent ink.