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
replacing fervour.
Parents took him
back 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.

Sadness Coffee

A love a nightmare
a nightmare,
not love.

As night
gives up
at the first hint of

to drowsiness.


from the kitchen cabinet
in poly packs 


A new day has begun.

Its warmth wins new territory,
its aroma breeds salubrious peace,
its froth bloats.
Tall as hope.

Only the bitterness doesn’t go.

Twenty sugar cubes wasted- a life
that’s swirling like a nightmare
is a nightmare
not life.

Where are the Girls

Where are those girls?
Who carried warm water in their purse.
Saving for later, for a whiny day.
Dipped tea-leaves in it and splashed in the faces 
of the child-men who came to them timidly.
Brave girls!
Memories of them 
petered and lost in my heart.
In correct times impermissible, unwise, perhaps?
So, whisper, whisper.

Benevolence, one part, and lust, another- a meady concoction of the seventh heaven
and, thrill as their bait.
Thus the trade- oh the trade is so onesided that I’d trade my house, my cars, and the damn dog away for I could be thrilled instead.

Where are they gone? 
The lithe girls who carried perfumed water in their crotches,
would raise a war with the lift of an eyebrow- or a titter storm?
Are they done now, gone now, even now, ashes now, coward now?
The children of a norm?