Posted: July 31, 2018 Filed under: Poem, Poetry | Tags: An Appetite for Life, Cloth, Hope, Hope & Hopelessness, Tragedy, Who wears what
An appetite is a costly thing.
For life? Oh, it’s more.
It’s easy to find why tragedy wears such a
commonplace bearing, and hope?
Who knows what it wore.
But, I have lost all my appetite
And hope? I saw her eons ago.
In a time when she was coarsely drawn up and-
Tottering; though her face still glowed.
Posted: May 30, 2018 Filed under: Poem, Poetry | Tags: Father, Father and Son, Hope, Inheritance, Mullishness, Pass On, Paternal, Who Is Close To Whom
An old Adam’s apple glistened on my father-
My old father- on my father’s old throat.
After a shave, after a save; after he came back from the hospital, after all concerned had lost all their hope
and then, regained.
My Adam’s apple glistens too in the morning light
(like father, like his son?)
After I shit, bath, brush, floss and shave.
To pull a long day and a quieter one too as one pull the wool over one’s eyes
and get drowned in the matinee’s terrific irony-
Why, that is my usual business.
I wonder what I will regain.
His mulishness, perhaps?
Before the end of the time and before the end of
my elongated days.
Posted: April 28, 2018 Filed under: Poem, Poetry, Prose Poetry | Tags: Biography, Death of a Great Man, Fortune Teller, Great Men & Disciple, Great Men & Great Lives, Reader, Voyeur
While reading a new book- a biography- life of Michelangelo or Kemal Pasha; invariably I will ask on some grand pages, “Did he know?”
“Did he know what?”
“Did he know how it would end, how would he himself die?”
“No one could possibly know that. Don’t be silly!” I will chide myself.
But as soon as the conversation will be over- me eager being silenced by me reasonable- there will be a self-assurance of a fortune teller and an anxiety of a friend, in me, while looking at the prospect of a great man.
Posted: February 27, 2018 Filed under: Poem, Poetry | Tags: A to Z Poem, Fun and Tragedy, Misogyny, Pickup, Treat & Trick in Love
Here from the
Posted: December 28, 2017 Filed under: Poem, Poetry | Tags: Fearless, Fearless like a Shepherd Dog, Inner Demons, Melancholy, Recovery, Sadness, Stubborn Recovery
Jumping through the hoops of an emerald jungle,
a fawn; old lassos of shiftiness of being: tilting, swinging- from the branches-
the clicks of its follies, hitting against the pebbles of sorrows,
clacking like hoofs.
To each on his own.
I’d rather be a shepherd dog.
Restless but, stubborn like hell.
Guttling the innards of the mournful demons who came cloaked in a hoof dust
dusk- shrieking- I could tell-
Fuckers! They were my own.
Posted: November 15, 2017 Filed under: Poem, Poetry | Tags: Grandma, Grandma's Cooking, Grandpa, Hate Anger Makeup, Husband and Wife, Marital Life, Marital Life in 1940s in a Village in India, Rural Marriage
Finger nails are the filthy urchins from the street
under her skin-
grow up without kindness
to squander with the tidy woman that she sees-
in the mirror, in calmness,
or in jolt.
While the potatoes are food,
being mashed in a saucepan on a cranky
tamarind wood table that’s got its temper
from my grandfather
is nothing but getting married to my grandmother
who through the
measured veil of shyness has already measured
her man- but to stir him further, pouring
into the pan
a ladle more salt.
There is no mustard oil at home, no affection either.
But that does not stop her
from mixing his anger
with her petulant nails- mother promise-
she will scratch him dead, blind him or worse
until he halts.