What Such a Poem Will Do

It will not last.
Not made of
immortal blocks. Will cave
under the weight of snide remarks,
will be run over by
Its rhymes
churning like a babble,
no litany of a chant.
He who wrote it stealing
from a long April night,
wrote it furiously
before dinner,
trembling now in
its futility
the next afternoon.

It doesn’t ooze- anything.
Doesn’t wear ornaments
that tinkle sweetly.
Mindless, resting;
its critics took its wallets.
Its grand ambition is floating
in the Arabian Sea, with fishing nets, a
submission page.

I will not ask you
to befriend such
a poem. To indulge it or to listen to its grumble
will be a waste of time.
If it does not die of shame,
some strange disease will take it.
Enlist its name
on a charity roster.
Buy it a puff but,
leave it without hearing its woes.
Strange nightmares will obliterate it,
today or tomorrow.
Its heart is thick now,
so thin is its skin.

What such a poem will
that can not laugh,

can not love itself?

An Almirah-full of Love

Jumble, jumble, my heart is tumbling
over the slants of your
shoulder. Your nape is fragrant.
Let me kiss you, rose bud.
I am no one without you.
Without a metaphor,
a greedy monster. Will you reconcile
with me, won’t you? Soft petal?

Even it’s a time to be separate,
a clarion call has come
to be evenly strong,
without me, an individual. I am a reactionary,
not strong,
not wish to be. Without you- an aloof, bitter,
violent. My remedy. My life’s cliche.
I abhor you, darling, I love you so much.

Then another separation: Death.
The primal departure of you
from myself and I
from you. A vacancy remains not for there will
be new loves. Will they remember us?
Or, say, it will not matter, who loves whom, and how
the heart is broken in a fickle way.
Forgetting is an almirah of loss and regret.

Stiff Love

Love made of
iron bends
in the ochre
flame of guilt, rusts
by inches
with age.

The hand grow
stiff in stiff
hand and
calloused- in
a jealous lover’s


If they could be counted they
would have matched the heaven.
On the green great mound of a meadow
as abreast as twinkly stars.

Take note, the average, the oblivious,
though not you are stars, not prominent.
Frail roots will hold each other under the earth to
make you one and tenacious. You are humble grass.


Softly, petal, it does not die:
the urge. The memories of grainy
softness, brush. Soft curls new
dew clad on
mound. Goosebumps
are preceded by kiss.

Raise, raise, raise two hands,
two wings. The arm pits are
naked caverns, seek!
The body flesh: it’s water, it’s a stone.
A sweet love is a
love and technique.

Pune 41

A small boy screaming.
Asking God to return early
the next year.
His voice,
both shrill and feeble was
making the building
people laugh.
Perseverance such,
they said.

God, in the meantime,
was drowning.
In his many clothes,
green, yellow glitters.
Turning red under
water, turning clay,
turning mud
in the wrought iron
water tank.

The boy stood watching the
annihilation. Sadness
overpowering fervour.
Parents coaxed him
home promising
the next day
they’d buy
him a Superman doll.


Last night
fear took a nest in my rib-
cage and remained.
Stole my peace

till morning tore
its wings. I watched the heart’s terse bird fickly floating
in the sunlight. At dusk it
strode back in.