The horses may be terra cotta with a laughter
In their extended horse necks, a droll humor
Visible in the clay necks while running races,
A fine sarcasm meant for race horse runners.
A dream God was installed in a stone temple
But Sultan’s God is different and west facing.
Resulting earthly laughter was fine horse play.
All things are of clay and break in due course.
(Jhamsingh the Sultan’s cavalry man, who had lived in Hyderabad two hundred years ago, went on a journey to buy horses for the Sultan but used the money to make a temple for God)
A wind will hurl down raw mangoes
Still in ripe forming stage for eating.
Well, they are words spoken in quiet,
To fill the spaces between our lives.
Like a sea’s hum on midnight beach,
There is background noise in all this
Of a fall of bodies like tiny mangoes,
And wind fills spaces between them.
The child’s old sketchbook house had
Rectangular windows, on either side
With the rectangular door between.
Rails rusted for decades ,letting in sun
Every dawn , with relentless shadows.
A woman’s face is faint behind them.
Her eyes were screwed on road by hill
A narrow path with a palm skirting it
That bent with fruit in frond outline.
The sky had hints of monsoon clouds
But rain would have to be postponed
Till a man arrived to the waiting eyes.
Everything was narrow in the scheme
And the birds in V’s were frozen in sky.
There was no relief for woman’s eyes.
Memorize 60000 words of Paradise Lost.
Face evil head on, a storm on black sky.
We justify possible ways of God to men.
We find romantic ways of black storms.
God’s words will teach not to question.
We shall memorize words as our ashes.
But to whom do we justify God’s ways
After we are words and come to pass?
Orange dusk is cow dust returning.
Sunsets oversee our all-time dying.
Their orange is the monk awaiting
By the snow white hills, in niches.
Everything must break to be dust.
Our smirk empties inner sarcasm
On to the piles of dust all around.
Poetry words shall rain down,
From Rilke,high up in the sky,
On bodies made of thingness.
As my thingness fizzles down,
I join him, mustache and all
To pour down my gentle rain.
Our village sky is cracked like an old woman.
Its smile crinkles like the old actress no more.
There is no water left in clouds for our thirst.
We have walked miles from villages for water.
Our mud walls are as cracked as our rice fields.
The walls hardly hold rice straw on our heads.
(Ghatkopar(Mumbai) has become home to hundreds of farmers and their families who have flocked from the drought-hit Marathwada region of the Indian state of Maharashtra. They have travelled hundreds of kilometres to this temporary settlement in search of work and water)