Grow old and inward

Everyone’s words grow inward
From a ten year old to seventy.

A ten year old may read latter
For a seventy year old beauty

That he had imagined existed
In a poetry’s looking outward.

Be Allen Ginsberg in the body
That grows old but imagines.


The imagist

She is dear Hilda, the imagist
Like her sea-nymph in forest
Whose pines are large pools.

Pines are green and pointed.
They pierce the language sky
Where sea breaks all barriers

And enters rock pools of firs
And splashes green on rocks,
Pointy pines scenting the sea.

(reading a poem OREAD by Hilda Doolittle)

Golden knees

In the hospital ,they cut in legs
Where you have calcium discs.

In the hospital, you just lie there
And they cut you magnificently.

All this while, you hear sounds
As if they are playing a Frisbee.

Tomorrow you will get up fresh
And walk on your golden knees.

Morning will be a gold of dawn
And the birds will chirp  usual.

(A knee replacement surgery is performed to replace worn out discs by plastic or metal ones on the patient who suffers from difficulty of walking on account of osteoarthritis)

Where the sea turns ocean

The sun is now yellow ,now white.
It will soon rise in the Indian ocean.

My ocean is my sea,the Bengal bay,
Men in it being three dimensional.

When men go fishing in high seas
They cross the borders of the sea

To enter the high streets of ocean
Where fish fly in continental shelf.

At the horizon sea is welded joint
With a blue vagueness of our sky.

That is where the sea turns ocean
And Bengal bay the Indian ocean.


It is already past the mid night
As in all the earlier mid nights,

Coming ,ticking for some time ,
Biding the sun’s arrival on sea.

A sun is living somewhere else
In the heart of this place night.

Or in a heart of that place’s day
Where a midnight comes later.

A knowledge precedes our acts
Says Kierkegaard in a midnight.

He was saying it in a mid night
In an existential frame of mind.

Old woman

Old woman , with half dreaming eyes
Climbs a window with eyes on street.

Her body flickers to glow like a worm
Lighting dark nights in a tree’s space.

There  is dried up river sand on body
Harking back to old monsoon’s flows.

Her eyes pierce the walls and beyond
And the backs of walkers on the road

Wanting to enter their outermost lives
The very outreaches of the daily lives.

Dead end

The world is our stomach
That aches at one’o clock.
We sea all things pour in.

We now lean on our elbow
To feel city out windowsill
Among people and things.

We take in the immensity
Of a sea and its sky dome
At dead end of the world.


(on reading the poem “The Overthrow of One O’Clock at Night” by Muriel Ruckeyser)