The gingerbread house

It was a ginger bread house,


It was a gingerbread house I designed,
before laziness could denounce my ensign,
I constructed in earnest,
for the festive occasion of Christ’s Nativity,

It was the avid gingerbread house with
Candy and plums spread around,
spooky and sweet, definitely not nondescript,
for the festive occasion of Christ’s Nativity,

It was the gingerbread house we all relished,
with a vow to demolish all bickering around,
I prayed many a more ginger bread house,
Should ward off all our grouse.

Bitter tablets

Bitter tablets

1)
The soul’s accelerated avid momentum
to merge with the ALONE attains fruition
only with steadfastness and sincerity.

2)
When the soul’s unquenchable thirst
To reach the alone is avidly unabated,
God’s mercy is amply augmented.


3) Ambition like a seasoned conman
Strikes REASON threadbare and hardcore
Devouring amateur and aged alike.

4) I sit at God’s Altar
not to clamor for any mundane favor
but to seek Divine succor.


5) When principles and personalities clash,
to make your life a humdrum trash,
Divine succor comes as a splash!


6) A beggar’s appearance needs no subscription,
while a palanquin beggars all description,
why this disparity in Creation?

7) Brazen shields and glossy swords,
gore the earth into bloodbath,
Ending up to endless configurations and wrath.


8) When you are steeped in abysmal worry,
your face into your hands bury,
here comes to resuscitate Ashbery.

Welcome ye New Year!

Welcome ye New Year!

Come, ye golden lady of riches,
I name you New Year unique,
Opulent with all riches, magnificent,
You are the ivy, evergreen,
Keeping the right foot on the threshold,
The illumined lamp cupped in your hands,
Come ye! Golden lady of riches,


There, in the vast arena
of jubilant gathering
The bugles shots high,
The proud bursting crackers
Itinerant towards the sky,
Rebel and mock at the silent gloom,
The itching hag of Darkness,
That rivet in the corner, pretending
to be unsullied, shaping itself
into the penurious, depressed,
honk into the devious,
ye the devilish, go to go,

Come ye! Golden lady of riches,
With all resplendence and prosperity.

Chrstmas Tree

Christmas Tree

Here in Tesco I saw a Christmas tree,
Entwined with bulbs of twinkling glee,
I took a vow no more there shall be,
Hunger, misery and vile penury around me.

When plums and cakes pour in bowls of plenty,
Christmas carols and songs in dainty,
Can we allow the dingy monster of dirty?
to usurp the greenery, a sordid pity,

In the merry England of snow and snow,
There shall be a big no, and only no,
No to wants and needs, you know,
Only God’s plenty, yes! We know.

A note on Death

A note on Death

Oh! Death, don’t be dandy like,

You and me are caught between ding-dong,

The bells are still ringing,

Your darting arrows are disgruntled,

You are fidgety, frivolous,

In your bituminous and dyspeptic mood,

You eject blasphemy of life,

I wish you to be dodo.

It is not as you think easy

It is not just as you think easy,

as pretty cool as to taste an ice cream

Or fruit salad, the cut fruits bit bit,

sip coke by a straw, and throw away

the folded and crushed straw in a bin

or leave the cute cups on the table unwashed,

I pick up a thin crushed paper,

To wipe my hands,

It is not as you think easy,

I think, think, and thank Heavens;

as existence has birth and death,

followed by the traumatic path of its journey,

living and dying ordained by Him who has chosen

It to be, if it be two legged or one eyed,

giant or dwarf, pauper or affluent,

It is not as you think easy,

I think, think and thank Heaven;

the rustling thin paper wails,

the kite from the ground by a

slender thread by a pulling hand,

before we became crumpled papers,

all sides tagged , whispers

we were live on trees,

We hang on to the empty balloons,

Whimper any time,

It is not as easy as you think,

I think think and thank Heaven.

,

Those,blead dark days---

Those bleak, dark, days--

Those dark days were dangerous,
like eruptions of molten lava,
as bad as to be in the rut of those raging panthers,
more dangerous to be in the midst of those
charlatans, silent spectators, watching me submit,
a caged bird like me, cannot but pour songs of
Innocence, shifting my abode of stay, much to the
chagrin of my spirit already in mortification,
Propelled by an inner voice, that ushers
me to forge ahead.

His voice

Inner voice



Why must I hold a phone with words?
When phones are active, in my heart’s
Secret chamber set by Him in Birth itself,
While you are all loquacious, clamorous,
to defy and to counter argue,
His Domain of Silence dominates,
His voice is the universal voice,
To counteract and quell the
Caterwauling, mounte banks,
His is , and would be symphony,
Conquering cacophony.

This biting cold here--

This biting cold here..

I draw my thick blanket, from my
Shivering feet to cover my parched face ,
I wriggle, shrink, beneath the cover,
Outside it is snowy and cold as a cod
My understanding little kid gives me
Cocooned pillow, me to coddle with,
Slowly I close my eyes, to visit my
land of shores, the dried palm leaves,
the tall coconut trees, in which beehives
Weave their dormitories, the sandy beaches
By which I weave a web of creativity,
Sleep creeps in as surreptitious
as a cat’s paw.

Gift of christmas.

Gift of Christmas

As Christmas is not far off,
Let us shake hands of warmth, exchanging chocolates,
Don the new vow of goodwill and mutual sympathy,
For what more comfort do you derive than
In shaking and sharing bounteous hands
Of extended wealth and mirth to the poor
And needy, He that was crucified sought
Pardon for the cruel, at least shall we not
Follow his path of forgiveness, for what more
Treasure you can treasure than the heart
Unsullied of spleen and vendetta.

When the dead grass and the thirsty cows---

When the dead grass and the thirsty cows---

When the dead grass and the thirsty cows,
the blunt meadows, the fields popped-up
with weeds, the growth of which is unaccountable,
the hungry farmer with the sickle, to unweed
the parched lands for there is no grain,
the livestock thin framed grazing on the
frail leaves got stuck up by the stake of
stones, not on the leaves or grass for
everything is parched, even the birds
and parrots dare not come, for there
is nothing to peck and beam about,
there is no bard to pour any song,
like anybody else I look up the sky,
the clouds, the beauty of the winged birds,
Journeying across, in mirthful glee,
Mocking at the land, I could hear an aircraft
zoom in the air, the innocent, convention bound,
Propitiate the rain gods, the chanting
is divine and uniform, sooner, steadier,
what are those gathering, dark clouds,
to brighten the land, to wet the dry?
my desk, my pad and quill go fertile.

It is the rains dropping

It is the rains dropping

It is the miles and miles of rains dropping,
Heaven’s Cheers dropping, dropping partial,
Sometimes here and there, It is all
the soil’s doing good and otherwise,
the learned scholars avidly opine,
may be the whims and fancies of the
Clouds, rains falling on the roof and rut,
rains dropping on the beggar and niggardly,
rains dropping on the timber and ok,
why,even on the felled wood thick, lying on
the ground beneath which the dead bird lies,
the bones jetting out, could be it is
given the watery burial, rains drop
even the anchored ship and add to the shore,
Yonder the flat , the boy floats a paper boat,
Though I want to I cannot, since a shiver
runs through me for I am feverish.

A painful pondering--

A painful pondering
It is not a trivial one day’s matter,
It is not a short term’s manoeuvre
it is not a year’s painful trauma
it is a solid five decades of parasites’
rapacious plundering into a vale,
It is a piteous wonder why should God
send such hounds into the smooth flowing
haven of placid helpless, creatures, one such was
Pushed fifty years ago to grow with the
Overflowing venom awfully inherited
From the womb where it came from,
Every minute’s progress was from the
Lust personified Mother
itself a putrefied commodity,
every penny by the itch of flesh, scratching,
every day’s food it swallowed by cunning, craft,
dubious knock of the house, every lie, every
Blasphemy, strong in its strangulation.
A victim of its own venom to be.

His Tennis court Experience

, His tennis court experience

It was in the Tennis court where he lost
and where a Revelation struck him,
where the meaning of Life was instilled,
he was cocksure of his previous experience,
confident of terrific, ripping success,
a sudden muscle pull , he knew he was losing,
Indigestible as hard as to find a mosquito
In plate of curd rice, he wriggled and wrestled
dashed his tennis racket against the wall,
emotion and empathy and undeniable
defeatism pushed him into a flat position,
resilience and despair drove him into a dream,
what did the cross that appear message him?
The cross signified the criss-cross of life’s
Meandering, mysterious miasma,
The warp and weft of the looming
as slender and as flexible
and as brittle as the dew drops of our life.

Another funeral averted

Another funeral averted.

Praise be to my Mentor, Kudos to my guru,
had it not been to my Guru’s timely,
benign intervention ,sequel to the almighty’s
boon to me, there would have been yet another
ghastly funeral, a Machiavellian plot,
those days when the beguiled, short-tempered
was no more, when his obsequies were being held,
when I was pushed to the noisy kitchen,
with my silence and ignorant of the
Surreptiously boiling, envenomed situation,
The truly guilty yet like a proud peacock,
Covering her sin was sauntering about,
Conniving ly convincing the gathered ones,
The poisoned arrow was turned against me,
My Mentor was strong by me
Praise be to Him who stands by me and my close-nit.

The Time is yet to come for them

The Time is yet to come for them—
The Time is for them yet to come
to run away, those plotting parasites,
for their perfumed bodies cannot do away
with their surreptitious nocturnal navigations,
these blithe night birds are known for their
Public daylight dances too.
They feel their flesh is itching,
day by day to abed more and more
men and in bath rooms and bathtubs ,
they dwell and delight their most
Expandable luxuries. Rippling! Killing!
Are their experiences but it is painful
for us for they see through their
sexy eyes , we the innocent ones.
The time is yet to come for them to run away,
for their coffers are to be filled.
No time limit, no clock would chime,
for they would rather pawn the clock
as they do their dignity,
the Time is yet to come for the
run away jingling bells.

what is this business of running away

What is this business of running away?

What is this business of running away from?
And why? Those in whose blood the runaway
Passion is ingrained, those seasoned sinners
in whom the rumour of others running away
is settled as a sediment in a river bed,
or a poisonous gas far beneath the well
in which we die of asphyxiation:
can we think of at the moment,
running away to the far off English countryside
to breathe into the forest aviation,
to wish to have a sickle to cut the
stem of the tree overflowing with sweet
water to quench our thirst,
or to sit by the lake to view these
birds with coloured beaks to
peck at peaches and plums,
to run away to a nearby cave
in which an antique idol
sits as if in a penance, shall we
run back to our homes to have a
Shower to run away to the tubes,
to run to the realms of classics,
to bask into the fields of poetry
and modern fiction.Yes!we are
far away from this mundane world.

Mu quill smacks at me

My quill smacks at me

Those white, splashy, frothy, surging waters
like battalions with iron-willed prowess,
dash against the seemingly timeless
Craggy rocks undiluted, firm and unshaken,
Rocky stones not yet corroded,
as if in a mood of defiance,
like a sage in penance.
I see the receding waters,
Now the roaring is gone
As in an aged lion, the valour is dead,

By the beach, my mood wanes,
My fingers criss-cross on the sands,
the pen which I throw in a fit of fury,
mocks at , the tiny bold bird
flaps its wings, back to me.

Praise be to the woman!

Praise be to that woman!

Praise be to that woman who bore the brutal brunt
of that man’s wrath and fury,
Praise be to that woman who was enslaved in her own roof,
that was plundered by preying wolves and confident
Intruders and tricksters who secured a base.
Praise be to that woman who fell a prey to hunger
and Starvation and menial task ,
while ease and luxury was extended
to the cheap and motivated,
woe and plague be to the woman
who wived the man who was to be her father.
Woe to the woman who husbanded the man
In stealth and fathered the man in public,
Curse be to the woman who cast aspersions
to the unseen and godly,
fortunate that she was who died premature,
for another killing was avoided.

One word is not enough or is theres any last word?

One word is not enough or is there any last word?

One word is not enough to describe
the mighty, vast ocean , the ultimate
excellence of the Creator’ crafty
design, the earth’s ruling monarchical monster,
the huge unfolable umbrella beneath which
microbes and engulfed lands and deluged cities,
in cyclical pattern roll on and roll down,
the beauty of the Blue is submerged by the
roaring, fearful ,thunderous, resurgent
looming waters gushing the shore and back
to the unseen throne,oh!the watery sublime,
Ceaseless and unaging, just as the creator,
You are the ultimate eternity,
eternity’s rummaging, Beauteous bounty.

He who has created the seed

He who has created the seed

He who has created the seed ,
As the creator of all things under His perview,
Protects it from being trampled upon,
the seed driven by the wind that sweeps it
to a safer place as the chic is nestled
upon by the caring mother ,its feathers
a complete coverage for the newborn,
He who has protected the seed, waters
the seed to germinate into a plant
which bears flowers ,flowers red, rose
those deck His altar Him Who has
infused life into living upon it.

The sweeper

The sweeper
The sweeper with a thin, frame of body,
With a packet of hurriedly baked breadfast,
tucked on the left of her sari frills beneath,
a sort of shrunken belly, her faded broom
mechanically sweeps, her thinking rocks
with the thought of her six months old baby
in the cloth cradle hung to the beams
across the thatched house, she sweeps,
the drunken husband stealing her
carefully hidden coffer, the awakened
idea suddenly sweeps her mind,
she sweeps or does her broom sweep?
Who knows, inwardly she weeps for her
Predicament, her broom sweeps the dust
On the floor, she weeps, she sweeps.

How he was beguiled

How he was beguiled


It was not the saliva dripping, tail wagging dog,
the faithful guardian who would snarl and growl
upon strange visitors, that he nourished and fondof,
for him the very name dog
Sounded anathema, he did not rear a dog,
to give biscuits and crumbs and a bowl of milk
To be fed, he was kind with vultures and prowling,
Wolfish in the form of humans, pillaging upon
every pie and poking and pricking upon the inmates,
the backdoor wolves chased away the inmates,
he who has nurtured the vile was snapped away
being poisoned to death.

On thd dead grass

On the dead grass


On the recently unplugged bunch of grass,
Grass, green and still fresh smelling, retaining
Its aura, no, the grass is not dried or dead,
I could feel the kerb of the bunch,
for the gardener uprooted the stretch,
has unevened , the ground,
that ghostlike stories swell
one could weave and write lounging
Upon the topsy-turvy mound,

how often paramours would have
rested in even times to share their
ruffled up, anxiety ridden reflections,
how many inspirational writings
would have emanated from the
Constructive, creative minds of the
thinkers who think alike,
No,the people throng still,
The grass is not dead, it smells
Still Green and good.

war poem-what is to be negated

That which is to be negated

It is not the blood –oozing bodies,
in the battlefield, some of the slain
asundered parts of which are shaking
like a quiver, a struggle not for survival,
but to breathe their last,
Those are vowed to redeem their Nation’s
Honour pledged and some sold,
may be some to deepen their feud and fury,
to foreground their buried venom
In sharpened knifes and sounding bullets,
For the widowed wives and orphaned children,
to aggrieve the loss, it is the seed of malice ,
a maligned, negative approach to be negated.

Is sky thse limit?---

Is sky the limit?


Standing on the ghat of the holy Ganges,
Ferrymen agile, rowing their boats up and down,
Convention bound families perform their rites
and the see-saw rhythm of chanting of ablutions ,
for the departed souls, I viewed the river not
in spate , the Sun –God from his orb
like a multi-millionaire’s treasure,
more for charity than for self, spreads his beams,
that morn I saw the blue merging with the blue,
I wished to have been a crab or sea-weed ,
to glide into the pitch of the sky.

A tree in Bangor

A tree in Bangor
A tree in Bangor
Some rustling of the leaves and a good natured
Monkey like hop about in a tree emitting glow worm like
Sparks ensuring light for the passersby, throwing a jug of
Marmalade a deliberate drop seemingly a casual one,
For a hungry woman sheltering under the thin branched tree,
and a leather jacket too to fight the biting cold,
a rustling ,ruling to wrestle the dominant darkness,
I look up from my near apartment, nothing for my naked eye,
It skips to and fro, I infer, settles in corner,
Sees through the unseen, selects a new shapeless,
Here the AVATAR goes to make miracles.

what is moresf about Time---

What is more about Time----
I would not say the repetitive
Time on its winged wheels,
Nor the a clock with its fast moving needles,
But Time is an ancient, versatile don’t care master,
also as a Stringent and rigour in his hand as a band
To make one knee l down or if His visionary
Wisdom ordains to heel the humble and hurt,
Time does not wallop or wail for he reigns supreme,
For Time is the crystallized compendium
And a case study of His Creation.

The young buoyant urchins

The young buoyant urchins here---


The bubbling buoyant urchins
In Silsoe rich in heart and tout,
Like covey of birds on the blue
Sky clear and wavy,
from all over the globe here,
with a free hand and open mind,
more of a matured wisdom than of
corrugated ego corrupting
their growing minds, work and play
dine and chat in equal rhythm,
believe into growing their conscience,
like polished diamonds into perfection.

The Devil's doing in the darkest hour

The Devil’s doing in the darkest hour


The Devil in the deadly dark hour,
Naked in its motive,
Springs, stings a naked lie of
reality that the god sent
Shrinkable, unseen, shapeless
does the job of the man in his sheet
a stark naked lie whet and cut
polished to be a truth,
that the love in the bed and bath tub,
an embryo in the barren no longer
fertile womb, yet the devil is naked,
naked in its wicked pursuit.

The inevitable

The inevitable

As the cupped hands cannot hold
All the gathered waters long,
just as this plastered building
of ephemeral body will not dare
to stilt and chase this soul,
as you cannot put all the embers
and fires in sealed containers,
just as the possibility of measuring
the ocean is a mere dream,
the suppressed facts and swearing
multiplied lies will only boomerang
with redoubled vigor and volume.

The indoor plants

The indoor plants

The indoor plants like a filigree,
on the television set of my Silsoe house,
and the ones by the central heating
tender and fresh till yesterday,
slowly droop and wither,
I, basking in the sunlight
of my garden reason out
that the greenery popping out of the pots,
crave for the sunlight the rays
which are flashed through the window grills,
making all of us realize how much of Sun,
the universal prevalent essential
rudimentary for our sustenance.

The one special fruit

The one special fruit ---

All the peaches and plums of England
Can not vie with that of a Pomegranate,
one in his garden, he being my best friend,
that one fruit hanging,full-blown,ruddy,
ruby like, the edges of which stroked even,
it reminds me of paintings of figures on
a china ware jar, the lines criss crossing,
on one side, the seeds are popping out
in a small cut, for a parrot has pecked at it,
still deft fingers would not pluck it away,
allowing more freedom for a fresh covey,
with a tweet and twitter, special guests
for the special fruit .

The ash colored Dove to ashes.

The ash-colored Dove to ashes

It was the tender, sponge-like ash- colored
Dove inquisitive and freedom in its control
was moving about in the academic campus
as if to preach or to teach, I know not,
with a twitter in the lab and a sudden jump
on top of the table to pry about,
it was the same Dove with a wounded leg
limping in my garden yet to peck at the
newly blossomed yellow flowers,
it was the same tender Dove cornered
in a corner of my garden at Silsoe,
with wings strewn apart, and the neck
pounded to mere nothing----.
I wake up from my sleep with a sigh,
Sigh of lost love to be tapped by my Dove.
A rejuvenation beyond imprint.

My dream comes true.

MY dream comes true.

My dream has come true,
my dream inextricably woven into
The vortex of my blood,
has come miraculously
True when I visit England for
the second time just as the
blossoming of a flower in my garden,
a beautiful sunflower serenade to and fro,
just as the birth of a calf in my
grandmother’s ancient house of
pillars high vaulted, the birth pangs
of the mother cow ….maaa maaa---
still ringing into my ears,
just as the landing of the aircraft,
as a bird takes off , widespread
its wings in the opposite direction,
the enriched land of Shelly
and Shakespeare, Lamb and Wordsmith,

I drive on from Silsoe a calm countryside,
The queen moon shines in its full ambit,
The isolated road sides and tree tops
Completely besmeared with the thick green aura,
I am Overwhelmed with the quill scribbling
in my mind’s eye,infront of me the dining table
filled with products from Tescoe,
I wide open my eyes to see how much more
To explore, to achieve and my dream comes true.

who bothers and what---

Who bothers and what----

Who is bothered about the dead and deceased?
when more and more meticulous poisoned,
care to gore the living to tear,
to strangle and to push into a corner,
who repents for the mishap?
when so many are there to misshape,
like the layers of the onion to peel,
they spin stories to whirl, wheel,
who is bothered about the wronged?
while more and more are warred
to settle their state and save the face s
The Supreme alone can rule the interface.
will the dead and smothered come back?
to cull out truth from the hackneyed rack?

feeling the stage----

Feeling the stage----

Sitting on the pyal stone like,
stretched my imagination to a hike,
on experiences of the hoary past,
how much of deception at last,
had gone to make the strings fast,

you are alone in the participating
audience, simply sitting and suffering,
laughing at the folly of man selfish,
who extends as far as time’s edge boorish,
who can go against the current of times,
which is the doing and undoing of God’s tricks,
until man realizes to come out of orb of this,
his dogmatism and arrogance woud cause amiss.

(176) strange

       ( 176)     Strange

It is strange to see sex and search sestina
in the eyes of sacred and celestial ,
just as to see the essence of the Vedas
in the welter of the loitering pig,
Isn’t it strange and cynical to expect
the rhythm and speed of the violin
on the saxophone and sit back
to comment with authority
upon the artifact with the lack
of even basic knowledge?
Is n’t it strange that Lost Paradise
was redeemed by the blind Bard
with a unique poetic vision
to be restored to the skeptical
humanity? Isn’t it strange that
a long uncertain rope walking
with not closed eyes leads to an
extended land of Faith and miracle?
Is n’t it strange that things are
happening and happening
much to the chagrin of the people
who denigrate and dampen your
Spirit? Isn’t it strange that the
Unbending question and question
many -----already designed by the
the unseen, only to be passed off
as a question mark.

I am

I am I am what Iam and what is expected of me, I cannot be what I am not, I can see everything unseen, I can fly and view on the winged wings viewless, for those with unflinching loyalty and unquestioning faith I am the life-safer and life boat, Why, I am the life extended in my devotees’ being. The unreasonable, unthinking remorseless, attributes sex and Shape to me, Ariel windy, fire and water uncontrollable and the cheap get crestfallen to get stored in the slot of sinners tainted with stigma, Benign and Blessed are those who crave for my Graced Love with everlasting devotion.

It was a sleepless night

It was a sleepless night It was a memorable sleepless night indeed, Not with those of eyes of searching looks, not craving for the embalmed love of bygone days, nor for those embraces of missed romance, but many a nights’ similar plights of lost love, truth cupped into twisted tales, tears wetting those cheeks, those tears were not from mere eyes, but from the heart’s softest corner, love lost long, long ago, even displaced by diabolic dehumanized ones crept to shake the roof, A recollection of a sordid episode of a child Crying and battling with life, a severe bronchitis Somewhere a call from the God of Death, The child is heaving a sigh of relief from those dissatisfied devils, backdoor intruders for lifelong gain, you were only a mute witness to the drama of assertive argument and sin sickening pell-mell. It was a sleepless night when I had the feel of the dead innocent child embodied into my being asking for justice and it was the sleepless night that a call from the Above whispered ‘endure, endure, and endure.’

The unguaded street

The unguarded street These morning strolls in the main street, at the dawn, the rays of the sunbeams as if the seer through the magic wand measures the future of the curious, dispel the darkness with the zoom of the lorry laden with the vegetables from the garden of the village, to the fair, the serenity of the atmosphere paves the mood for the writer and the artist, the singer who hums the tune, the street is not guarded for no cops till nine when the traffic increases and the polluted, wind- laden dust raises mounds of misty clouts to blind the innocent passerby. Now the street is amply unguarded, for the swarm of flies from the litterbin buzz around to prove their agility, now the street is typically unguarded, for the roadside maker of dish and fast-food counts the snippets to be plundered by the seasoned hungry.

The Bed

The Bed When a severe backache pokes me like a pointed dagger which the smooth floor, wherein I lie resists, I take recourse to a bed, where my partner, my hardbound dictionary weighing heavy befriends my pillow, the ill improvised bed is more conspicuous by the absence of the master through out, the cover is besmeared by the ink marks, no flowers, no aroma, no incense, creativity, my Goddess, awaits me in belated hours, the quill flows on: This pain mocks at the quill for the intermittent distraction, tonight I am off with my master, the door is barred, lights are not off. Lights are not off, for the devil not far off, defeated, turns off.

Why? why? why?

Why? Why to probe into the ‘whyness’ of Select things you are eager to know, when you yourself do not know why is it you are doing so, The answer is that your why is followed by many ‘whys’ it is like seeing the origin of the name of God, who is the first inventor? Why probe into the question Who created God? Aren’t you aware that you are belied by your own eyes? Why do you probe why the woman only is gifted to carry the child and not the man, why? Why? why? Why is that that a child is born not of one single entity, but of union of man and woman, be it regal wedding, marriage legalized, or accidental Collocation or total surrender? why the sun rises in the East, that sets in the West, the ‘why’ of many things is not your concern, oh! Man, beware.

Every drop of blood--

Every drop of blood --- With every drop of blood shed, be it from the black or white skin, or red Indian or mixed race, what is spilt is not the vegetation consumed by or the animal flesh raw or cooked, pounded or fried fish or chicken assimilated into colored essence or what we call blood, with every drop of blood shed is the milk of mother’s cared affection, flowing into thews and sinews carrying the ancestral heritage.

Nothing is more gruesome than---

Nothing is more gruesome Nothing is more gruesome than to get the message try and try, to make your life insipid, nothing is more appalling, than to be powerless before the stark villainy masquerading that overpowers the reason, nothing is more horrendous than to see the truth hidden and allowing things to happen, nothing is more torturing than to be a slave in your own roof, the concubine of your husband reigning like a queen, nothing is more painful than to have the belated revelation that you were beguiled in the past, for ulterior motives, After all nothing is more sinful That God and God sent is the butt of ridicule and victim of man’s treason and treachery.

Walking in the rain---

Walking in the rain….. As I was walking in the rain, holding the umbrella with one hand, umbrella tilting and twitching, When the other hand a bunch of books, my treasure, my livelihood and my bread bereft of which my existence would have become a meager no better treatment than an ant, I feel the sprinkles of rain water on my face as if to rejuvenate my spirits lost and forlorn, taking me to the days of English summer, a lily by the pond, nods as if to preach the nuances of life, like the belching cow should you look back in anger the harsh realities around you, just as you trample upon the decayed leaves and peel of oranges and tomatoes thrown, tightening the grip of books, lest they should become one with them, I climb up, up the staircase, back to my study, back to my reading room.

(171) somewhere far off...

     (171)    Somewhere far off…..




Somewhere in a far off local temple
when the bell chimes, moves to and fro,
also moving people alike in a mood of
mixed reverberation and piety
not in words of cacophony,
but rhythmic chantic of verses,
in tune with the devotees’ prayers
the incense of camphor and jasmine
with the sandal paste and coconut,
Somewhere in a far off open place
of many stone pillars bespeak of the
ancient existence of the local deity
worshipped with all neem leaved
dancers and rice ball offerings
sweetened by jaggery, to fulfill
their long pending vows
authenticated by age long beliefs,
Somewhere there, not in a far off place,
yet away from the humanity’s loud
interplay, there sits a woman wan with
Yesteryears of spring and winter in her life,
befriends a woman in the cloud, in the sky,
slowly passes off into sleep, eternal sleep.

(170) silenced to what not....

    (170)   Silenced to what not….

when, what I think as my deft fingers
were cleaning those tartar and stain
on the white china teacups, by my sink,
shining and polished as one would be
tempted to store water as the tap is on,
my eyes were enamored by the paintings
of pairs of paramours dancing in their
native attires Rajastani, Gujarati, Bengali,
should I hold them or throw them?
I was silenced to what not.


The lazy mistress of the house,
accumulated dust and treasure alike,
fashion and fancy and cuisine comfort
blinded her civic sense,
she became obstreperous and fractious,
I was silenced to what not.

when clamor and clutter in a
high minded way suppressed facts
like gun powder wrecking families asunder,
posing the upper hand of honesty,
I was silenced to what not.

(165) You

   (  165)   YOU


You are the spike at the center of the wheel,
the wheel of fortune governing the humans,
dumb, the devil and daring
the wheeled chariot, parading the vast,
that carries the lord Supreme who purveys
the universe, caring His loved and lost,
you are the keel of the wheeling chair,
You are the feather soft to fan for the child,
you are the god sent shelter to cover
abandoned and forlorn
You are the ashes in the urn to
remind the impermanence,
you are the being in the fairy,
you are the Faith for the avowed believer,
you are the filth and dirt and waste
for the nonbeliever,
like the chicken covered in the baskets,
you protect the innocent and needy,
You are the poem plain without imagery,
you are the poetic artifact replete
with pun and parody, simile and
You are the breath, lifeforce,
You are breathless and flat,
You the essay to attack the vile
and ribald, and robust,
You are the thread ruling the
kite and the boy propeller from
the flat ground below,
when you are misunderstood
and misconstrued for a zero
life is amiss and chaos.

If life is like a bubble

If life is like a bubble--
It is the month of November,
sudden pale of gloom and gathering darkness
through my window amid the thunder and
lightning piercing the multistoried apartment,
I finish my culinary work without a finishing touch,
hurriedly climb down to catch the direct bus,
sharpened spike pokes my sandal wet, in the
downpour, my umbrella gets unfolded,
the poetic sentiments vie with the manifold
bubbles, bubbles form to break into fluids of
running water, I get stranded to watch
the running times get impounded in the
Running water, a mirage of letters getting
blown before my eyes in the computers,
we come under the category no work no pay
Scheme, can I say no work no food to my
aching body?
can I call my Creator, and
ask Him to amend all the governing laws?
a young boy puts a paper boat in the water,
for him bubbles forge into buoyancy,
the downpour of rain pulls me back home
to use my paper and quill
to convert of bubble of life into a perennial flow.

The black crow on the white window

The black crow on the white window

When I was looking at the window,
the white window before me,
of my personal computers, my friend,
my recent addiction, sudden warring shutters,
propelled by the wind and storm,
Struck by the sight of a bird with a bone,
A black crow swept past me, sat on the computers,
Pecking the strong bone perhaps
thrown away in the clutter,
Persistently clung with the beak,
bold and bravery is its motto,
It looked like that; the crow looked like that,
Pecking and looking at me reassuring
that I have no business to drive it away,
now coming down to have a look at the window,
A peep into the letters, as if to codify,
The piece of bone by the tender feathers now,
Still a look not deviated,
When I pressed the button enter,
it flew back no cawing, with
the same bone and brouhaha.

What remains...

What remains...

What remains is not the poignant memory
of your sweet smile amidst taunts inflicted,
insults heaped like stones one after another,
for you did not want your siblings to know,
to share your predicament, servile at home
because of a nasty intruder, crafty and callous,
to share your prime possession, your happiness,
your conjugal love, an outcaste in your own house,
when the hungry, debaucheries, hawks ruled roost,
you helpless onlooker of the vile drama put up,
put up with the privations, none to console you,
at times fighting a loose battle with the deadly
venom of the cobras, counting your days to the grave
oh! When you were relieved, when death embraced
you, when your cruel husband reveled in the
embraces of his concubine, to whet her hunger
and fill her coffer she by backdoor entered,
a woe to mankind she is and a curse to womanhood,
oh!what remains is not the burnt ashes of you
kept in the urn to be immersed in the holy river,
what remains is not your saree, to be vied
by those ingrate wretches your daughters,
the shameless intruder’s daughter in the same
roof more dogmatically, claimed the only remnant,
what remains is not the memory of
earthenware utensils for the valuables were
embezzled by the pelican monsters,
what remains is not the old photo of yours
a semblance somewhat like you which
was hung by me on the wall,
oh!mother, what remains is the inerasable fact
none can equal you; none can compete with you,
what remains is the fact that the hungry pigs
continue to welter in the ditch until choked .

(168) Run run run

     (168)     Run, run run
Run, run with sweat and gasping breadth,
Run with the goal of unceasing and untiring,
Run like an antelope in the wild, wooded,
chased by hunting dogs and growling hyenas,
run like the nonstop time and your destiny,
that follows to run after you despite the
bottleneck of your pursuits and balance,
we run though the maddening crowd
thronging the ration shop,
to be entitled for a ration card,
all for the rotten old rice with
wriggling worms predominately
surging just as the battalion,
run to the temple climb up the narrow
steps to reach atop, pray for the
Preyed upon,
We even tend to make the gods run
We the principled run, run until to
Reach our destination, yet not to run away,
Not to run away.

(169) Between this breath

      169)    Between this breath.....


Between this breath and the fragile body,
fragile for what is the barren frame
without the breath or life force
whatever you my call it,
that wears the indomitable soul
or the uncouth lazy verve less
human or entity whatever you call it,
the flesh which is embellished with
foppery coupled with fineness,
what passes on is only a vague
ephemeral show that blinds our
eyes that misleads our thinking,


Between this breath and the papers
on which flow the poignant sentiments
or the seasonal fecundity
ditty, at times gritty and granular,
what passes on is the imprint of
your alert mind inviting the double
readings of perverted thinking,


Between this breath and your existence
Surveyed by the vile and good,
balanced by patience and enduring,
what passes on is the life led or thrust,
but the life lived by you.

( 164) The God of all things.

   (164)      The God of all things


The God of all things, all pervading,
whether you sit on majestic throne,
with a rod of scepter, keeping the laws
like a regulator turning this left and right,
else things will be in a rust and crumble,
or beef or flesh of a fox gored by the lion,
be it in the form of green leaves sprouting
or stem shooting, or leaves withered like
dead bones to be powdered,
oh! The God of all things
creep under the sofa like a fairy,
or a merman fishing deep in the Blue,
be the form of fire emitting fire,
Fire destroying fire and livestock,
fire engulfing straw and crops,
Canonfodder and sugarcane,
Oh! The God of all things,
You hide in the hinges of the door,
or through the rills of banister,
You spread on the thatched roof,
hidden underneath like a proof,
God of all things, be you the life giving
Source of the embryo in the womb
of the mother,
oh! The God of all things, be thou the
Spirit of sanity, sensibility and sanctity,
in any man envenomed by
undue doubt and calumny
when poison in cup of wine,
poured by the mistress,
or  a woman of close-knit  bond,
The God of all things,
You are the ultimate
and things profound and Divine!

Gobbulle gobbulle 158)

Gobbulle gobbulle  158

I want to gobble a bottle of plain soda,
To quench my thirst in the hot sun,
After rummaging the library in the city,
Sweat and sweat and sweat,
Search after a theme of fine humour,
Ran down to a shop of snacks
Gobbled and gulped a bottle of soda
In turns and twists,
of plain water, wet my skirt through my jacket,
the gulping sound of water down my throat,
the note of gobbulle, gobbulle,
the rhythm of fine humour,
fun in the gulp followed by many hiccoughs,
gobbulle and gobbulle.

Graying into green 140

Graying into green  140

Upon the graying of my hair, the roots getting weakened
I am inclined not towards dying, scratch the cerebellum
to get dragged into the past of agitation and anxiety,
of mixed ignorance, desperate roving and curiosity,
like a bewildered pilot in the sky, in the mid air,
Can’t afford to get stuckup, surfacing neither,
yet diving, delving, into the past, the green memory
Is bitter and painful, takes the crushed bittergauard?
an inevitable therapy, gulping the stigma at one stroke,
keep counting the unaccounted devils’ disciples,
dismayed at my folly believing every nonbeliever of
the conscience, I log off from my computer to
make a trip towards my counter side, how heartening
to see the fields of sugarcane and plantain leaves,
the farmer’s wife offers the curd rice with the mango pickle,
the speeding squirrels and the rats from their improvised moles,
is it a fear of survival or a free play in the interface
of the paddy mounds, I know not,
At times we too crave to escape from the inevitable rut.

Will you come tonight?

Will you come tonight?

will you come tonight?
like an ethereal minstrel
to pour the melody of oaken flute
of solace and soothing words
into our distressed soul,
and the tired bodies- me and my son,
lurk in a corner, need
your feather touch of comfort,
will you come tonight?
will you come tonight?
like a piercing gush of wind
blowing the tin plate on the
open terrace of the flat,
will you come tonight to make
love and romping romance?
as scandalized by them, when
truly you are unseen and
Shapeless and devoid of sex,
Will you come tonight to gore
the horrendous and view the weird?
Will you come tonight?
to watch the shutters of the
departmental store down but
still the humanity rush to make
the last minute purchase of curd and
cucumber for the next day,
for the salad on the plates,
to counteract the heat and sweat,
will you come tonight?
to sing lullaby
to many unborn babies,
in and around the environment.
Yes, you will come tonight,
And many nights to come
to protect the inmates of the house.

The night is tough

The night is tough

The night is tough,
the night is indeed to-u-gh,
the cool breeze through my window
Through the embroidered curtain,
also fails for the trees fail,
the cute little friend,
my pc does not cooperate
for my fingers refuse to ply
on the pure white keyboard,
a timely gift by my uncle,
as sensible people are wont to react
keeping in tune with the times,

The white majestic key-board,
Neatly truncated with black letters,
just as a beautiful white neck,
ornate with black crystal necklace,
is momentarily idle on the table,
the usually roaring beach is calm
and the surrounding trees
are sedate and withhold the branches,
a sadism and cessation to keep
mankind in tantrum,

The night is tough
for only creatitivity and serenity
Pervades and anything pure and good
is tough and uncompromising,
the night is tough,
for there is no uncouth flavor of mundane
distraction and there is no bestial
for there is no man in the house,

The night is not tough,
for my inspirational thoughts
fly back on the wheels
for I am drowsy and fall into sleep.

160) The path

   160)   The path


When I am on the road grueling
on the prospect of a pathless journey,
sweat and struggle make me
run like a wounded elephant calf,
yes, the young calf, timid,
runs towards a pit
to fall to escape the wrath of the giants
of forest, such sights are familiar to me,
Me ,too the sight of a path is dim and distant,
in the thick forest of multi paths
negotiated by spiraling trees and fences,
the elephant the panther have
hidden behind some bushy plants,
peep out after rocky bombs stop pouring;
you counteract many a thorny bushy vile,
just as a knave wandering too many paths,
or a pig weltering in the slime,
too many paths ill suited,
you swoon to select a path ,
the business of path finding is
laborious and eluding,
I go to the clear pond where
the swan sways boat like and the
grazing cows by the green border
clear my inhibitions,
the path of Nature is the path
Preferred and practiced.