Everything is after

Afterlife is larger than death and before,
Vastly bigger than a life we have lived,
A close-ended event of liminal thought.

White cradle cloth takes you to a roof
Brings you back to shadow of yourself,
A repeat process till momentum ends.

Mother’s hand slowly sleeps a tugging.
The momentum slows cradle swinging.
When  that is over, everything is after.

Literary walk

I could not set an agenda for a walk
That promised to be a literary walk.
Let it be literal walk on jellied knees.

Let this be liberal walk with images
That crowded the mind like people
in lungis, with their morning milk.

The sun is now higher up in the sky.
He is no longer jelly in the banyan.
A jelly is thinking down my knees.

Good times

On Dover we are not somber , just drunk.
As sea ebbed of faith, we have good time.
We have our darkest goggles all the time.

We are cool on the beach with our bitch,
As  some ignorant armies clash by night
And a poet grapples with human misery.

( The Dover Bitch is a poem by Anthony Hecht mocking the serious poem Dover Beach by the Victorian poet Mathew Arnold)

Old jetties are useful too

Old jetty’s feet are planted in the sea.
Waves still play old pranks with them,
Tickling its odd ribs to stifled laughter.

No ships call from bluest of high seas.
Last one called when white men ruled.
Crows sit still on it tired,a bit tide low.

Ships may not call from the high seas.
Old jetties do not die off just like that.
They carry fine ads for an underwear.

(On a visit to the Mogadharupadu beach in Srikakulam Dist in Andhra Pradesh)

Refer to drawer

Father, I do not know you from mother
Of whom I had one who is now no body.

By inference and refer to drawer memo,
You were there because I am now here.

Sister is not here ,exists as a possibility,
Since I am here and so you were there.

After I am dead , tell me where to find
Sister to give me burial I richly deserve.

(Sister is allusion to Antigone in the Greek tragedy by that name by Sophocles)

Notes about dreams

Mark, I have not seen my own body
Doing any of the things of a dream.
My body was a sleeping third party
A figment in somebody else’s story.

As morning came I would recall plot
But forget plot-line my vagueness.
I get into knots confusing realities
With thin bits of dreams and men.

My dreams cross into life and sleep
Alternating between life and death.
Death is the longest dream I sleep.
Now we compare notes, you and I.

(referring to the poem Dreams by Mark Strand)

A train for their thirst

The waters are traveling across fields
Under the telephone wires with birds.
The latter go up and down with train.

The waters talk to the high end of rim.
Their talk spills to brown paddy fields
And reaches the distant dry mountain.

At the wayside station they shall stop
Because they are thirsty by the throat
Of a talk beyond spilling wagon rims.

(A train carrying water for the drought-hit Latur has left Miraj on a 345 Kms journey across parched lands)

Common room

The world shall hold still about you
When you are body lowered in  box
A common room for quintessential.

Below staircase the words hold still
As quintessential earth flying a sun.
Hold still as they hate ironic smiles.

In common room, the worms smile
But fear a laughter by quintessence
As they go about essential business.

Blue hills

Mountain flowers are blue bells
Beloved of spring in mountains,
Like seashells blowing fine music.
In a distance , the hills are blue.

Hills are smooth and a fine blue,
From a smoke we see going up,
Our horizons blue and receding.
From hilltop the sea is blue sky.