November 30, 2023

new walls with odours of hate

and love cagily crumping

the shade between earth and sky

I do not question the moon

skirting the cherished wishes

on dreamy edges of winter

unforcing climax with sticky

fingers splintering sensations

or skittish little riddles

frosting the heart at fifty

I love light without ashes

of wood or fuming desires

in the morass of frustration

I sing psalms people understand

through lines on palms or relics

of private rains lunch

I live time shaking sun and moon


I don’t fear death

nor do I worry about


but I fear I know

what life has been and could be

without fortuity

of birth and continuance

of our failure to

undo what we do ourselves.


We do not know the weeds

that grow in bed with flowers

staring like weary cops

unmindful of birds at dusk

the more they know legends

the worse it becomes to live:

let’s clean the sky of tales

of covenants and prophets

and be at peace with earth’s

bushes and weeds and flowers


Moon-bleached ashes of ages

riot in the night

there is no smoke

my diffidence rises as snake

in dream meanders

the dragon’s tail

my teeth nibble at the garbage

near the mango tree

I stand like the tin

on rusted roots morning

flares up will to live

beyond breedy space


Strayed far from the nest

I’m fedup living with dust

for years fleeting shade


of melody

of spirit I sink to

the hades of utter loss

I can’t

recon hidden mysteries

I have lost the sea

for a mere cupful

void of patience and

peace now as I touch the breasts

of the field I crave

for a pure breath

native to

my being I search

sweet savours

of love


I seek the roots that shape

my desperate cries, my bones

that ache in bed I image

the snakes in forgotten heritage

I weave delight with Baha’i mind

and prayers in English before Kali

standing alone with psalms

or Tablet of Ahmad, perhaps

I cross-breed in soul

but, who hears or sees

the ancient hands that signed

the first poems for man?

I sound strange, and strange I am

rooting about among vehicles

for my antimony with names


The rain-soothed walls of Shivalay

shine in sun like the gravelled path

now slick with wet mud and cow-dung

obscure footmarks of Monday-worshippers:

I forget the sutras today and feel

the damp incense inside like I did

standing in the empty sentry-box

compromising with the rusted letterbox

not opened for years at the left turn

the mime of hope and worship and slow effacement

of illegible signatures on deity’s back

don’t help me flesh my verses or mitigate

pounding rains, rituals and repetitions


It’s too much to live

amid the lies made to keep

the wheel moving:

now knee deep it’s better

we seek shelter in the hush

of sky or the charred

ocean floor leaping

to still the cries of ghosts

that were children once

death is no wound nor

cracks inside any solace:

lies of living lock

the footprints in drifts

in wildness fossilise

word and connections


One may or may not justify

one’s romance with lethargy:

to understand what lies beyond

rainbow or under the tree shade

one must leave much for another

day or season, or mood or dream

and leisurely sketch happiness

with dapple of light and darkness moon rocks

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