Now I take my room’s inside out.
I will empty its contents in space.

Room is now a memory’s hollow.
Books are my scattered memory

Their contents spread as hollows,
Like thoughts when I am in sleep

My books are memory’s outside
Spilled in a vast hollow of space.

The room’s hollow lies scattered
Beyond  a balcony, beyond night.

My inside is a  hollow stretching
Indefinitely outside of  my body.



Pale ghosts

You are there? Mom would discover
In a room’s dark that folded over boy.

Piano was a pale ghost in her hands.
Its music laid spectral magic on boy.

Her hands are a pale ghost in his hair
As if walking slow ,in snow and gale.

(reading poem Glimpse of a Childhood by Rainer Maria Rilke)


This night’s calming sounds
Are of sea’s waves with gulls,
Gulls being a forgetful wave,

A kind of oblivion you loved
As by Ashbery , since passed
Beyond anyone’s conjecture.

We are composing our wave,
The poem about an oblivion,
The sea where all poets went.

(reading John Ashbery’s poem Not Beyond All Our Conjecture)

Stony silence

Loved woman had snakes in hair.
She would turn you stone to look.
A mere looking turned you stone,

You must not go near a tamarind
That has snake tresses in the dark
And is home to childhood ghosts.

And death lives in a cave of trees.
All poetry sings is a stony silence
By body turned stone by looking.

Summer sun

We are awaiting the call of doctor
Whose death is buried in that wall

And my own, a subtext, in the mag
Touches a wall ,where sockets live

And phones die numbers of times
And the newspaper dies with men

Whose epithelial cells die in a lab
And sodium dies in adrenal gland.

Every thing dies of something else
But summer sun crawls regardless.


Persist with dream

In between , you may wake up
But please persist with dream.

Persist with remembered copy
Half representative of  dream

Inside very act of your waking
In between to persever with it.

Experience touchy -feely thing
In between diaphanous layers

Of persistence and dream stuff
Till you are  dreaming dreams.

Do not ask why we are on this.
We are persisting with dream.


The rain poured on the station
And people poured into mass.

Bodies went in heap on bridge.
They belonged to daily ghosts

That flashed past on other train
As apparitions on a foot board.

Humanity seemed a huge mass,
As basket of plucked out petals.

(In a stampede of commuters on a narrow railway footbridge in Mumbai 22 people died and several injured. The image of the petals to describe a crowd is from Ezra Pound’s short poem “In a station of the Metro”)