we are still on the earth anxious for victory
of avoiding the bumps in our tiny stomachs
and the consequent high tension wires in us
snapping in their lightning flash, a big bang.

we are looking for our paper to fly like them
who went before and are a dead-weight still.
on the earth we are hanging on to the hangar
counting Siberian bird feet into our swamps.

Our other

There is not much of a sun about us
Where we and our other come from.
We would cry hours for a milk pail
To make ourselves sick and crying.

We were actually laughing at other.
We were not a helpless milk baby.
That is the way we pay our tribute
To him who trailed us as a shadow.

News missile

His lion’s mane would wave significantly
To the management kids on wings of fire.
A fire shall now bury president of all time.

The old paper boy had aimed upper story
With news missile to reach morning cup.
Later he made missiles for the high skies.
His targets are always on time , in space.

(India’s most illustrious President and missile scientist Dr.Abdul Kalam passed yesterday at the age of 83)

Going through motions

Piku was a brave girl with a tall father
Who had a problem with the motions.
A largely static girl herself she spurns
Obtrusive lovers for this tallest father.
Some may be having similar dynamics,
Less to do with emotions than motions.

Now that the dad has croaked his last
Will there be a few emotions for Piku?
At least she need go through no motions.

(After watching a Hindi movie Piku)

Old girls

Back home our pony-tailed girls
Hopscotched four chalk squares.
God, how pony tails ding-donged!
May(a) I imagine you one of them.
I wait for dusk to hide your black.
Odd to see a black face in browns.

Now old girls play ,bald and ribald.
Like you we believe we have won.
They think they have ,poor things.

(remembering Maya Angela’s poem Harlem Hopscotch)

Natural subjects

we slip into active lives- natural subjects
to lose ourselves to their concrete forest
to fill its hollows with imagined spaces.

when it comes to bodies we make them
hard as concrete , so they burn up yours
as your thoughts touch them,in our fall.

Cotton suicides

These are clouds over farmer’s faces.
Now they squeeze their faces into sky.
The sky is as cracked as cotton’s land.
Down there are masses of a cumulus
With no rail tickets to reach a cotton.
They fizzle down as promises unmet.
Cottons will go about a mass suicide
By the electric fan, not finding trees.