Stone

We disappear in a silence,
As a stone hurled in pond

That makes no frog-leaps,
To send a marginal ripple.

Like tiny red banyan fruit
Drops on scummed pond.

In our fact ,we disappear
As opposite of appearing.

In our fact we disappear
As if we never appeared.

Advertisements

Walking feet

Some times ,waves touch
Walking feet near stones

Piled to save a submarine
From sea’s burst of anger.

Walking feet must detour
The stones to dodge a sea.

It once made large holes
In  underbellies of ships.

Now lies dead like turtle
Shell thrown up by  sea.

Vigil in the night

His   throat freezes a poison
So we sleep in his safe belly.

We drown a cosmic anxiety
In sputters of motor cycles,

In dead flowers, film songs
That come to ears like odor.

We keep a vigil on His sleep.
Sleep keeps vigil over night.

(On the night of Shiva , He keeps a cosmic poison safely away from the world by freezing it in his blue throat )

Lonely sea

I hear the sea’s fever in head
As its moon is up and about.

Sea goes in  fever and foam,
Pukes  litter of dead flowers.

As three boys hop in its sky,
With three torsos in mid-air,

I stand here by a lonely sea
And swear by the lovely sea.

I run my fever by lonely sea,
Behind a sad-assed balcony .

(On reading John Mansfield’s poem “Sea Fever”)

From mosquito to moon

“When I come close to saying what I want to, I’m over the moon. Even if it’s just six lines, I pull out the champagne. But until then, my goodness, those lines worry me like a mosquito in the ear.”
-Maya Angelow

Mosquitoes worry poet ears,
Inside their conscience a bit.

Poets come close to six lines
To jump quickly over moon.

In just six lines, they conquer
The world in a tiny mosquito.

 

Portal

We trace beauty fitfully
And in  tracings, looms

Our mortality’s shadow
After winter’s old men.

The elders had to gawk
Susanna in warm pool

As the shadow of death
Scraped an ironic edge.

Beauty is finally traced
To death’s warm portal.

(After Wallace Stevens’ Peter Quince at the Clavier)