(139) Between those pages...

(139) Between those pages........



Between those pages of musty smell
and dust as sediments of layers
that sweep with a stickiness
on the papers almost moth eaten
to remind the time and its dominance,
I browse quickly some stale incidents
that were scanned long ago,
Memory is deep- rooted to recollect
The same tale of a hero,
embodiment of sadness,
Sneeze catches me in between
The inhale of mustiness,
My fingers turn off the pages
to spot the venom of a woman
all spit in persistent dialogues,
to wreck the long survived marriage.
Between those pages, anger doubles
Widow sister , a willow tree’s friend
Wrecks the life, another Lady Macbeth born,
This blood sucker devoid of conscience
determined to delve in to the brother’s ears,
Venom and vendetta in profuse,
Between those pages of yesteryears
of history and histrionic actions of
Men and matters steeped in volley of
hidden thoughts and zero results
Cropping and confusing,
When I near the final pages
Philosophy and resignation also
Dominate.

(127) Can you find me?

(127) Can you find me?



Can you find me in the bundle of currency
heaped up in the secret chambers laid in the walls?
will I be reached only in cocktail parties?
a visit to the brothel or a slip to the whorehouse
as straying as pigs weltering in the slimy mud
looting the dirt and human waste,
a conversation into tasty bites,
will I be found where gunshots and bullets
persistently predominate and bodies as peanuts,
where ceasefire is only a cessation to further
the blood thirst for war, can you find me there?
can you find me in the man who revels in the armpits
Of his mistress , cheap pleasures miscalculated
as peace? Can you find me in the wall posters
‘peace’ for world peace go at a slow pace,
Can you find only in the guitars and piano
Of road side singer for alms?
I am PEACE , dwell in the heart where contentment
Reigns, supreme and passivity predominates.

(126) The fair.

(126) The fair.



Variety of vegetables and plastic tubs,
from combs to containers, under shady roofs,
all of straw and palm leaves,
an improvisation of Nature even when withered,
green vegetation and thirsty vendors,
thirst doubled to quench and to sell
to make the FAIR A FAIR event,
for the eager innocent villagers,
a pleasant retrieve from their routine,
the stalls presented a rich feast,
for the searching eyes.
The woman displayed their ignorance
by splitting the betel leaves by their side.
The green leaves in baskets were
watered in sprinkles to protect from
Slow withering,
as a coughing child by a caring doctor
be administered medicine.
As the bright hour receded,
when darkness made inroads,
I feared to tread upon a very thick thread,
lying on the narrow road,
many a thread in possession by the merchants,
as  tardy by a hardcore labourer,
for binding and unbinding their commodities,
discarded as unwanted for the hour,
construed it as a snake and never foresaw to
bump ,hit against a boulder,
scratches on the nose and face bleeding,
ass I was walking back home,
 a truck laden,with vegetables and fresh greenery,
speeding for the next day fair,
not to heal the scratches on my face.

(125) When I am dead, dear mother......

(125) When I am dead , dear mother.......



When I am dead , dear mother,
don’t disregard this letter
as a sheer litter to be thrown,
let the news of my death
be hurried to my Mentor,
allow the feather touch of
His graceful hands carry me
to the graveyard for the last rites,
let not my body be pounded,
and powdered in electric crematorium,
let my chilled body and frozen blood,
be engulfed by funeral pyre,
set by log of wood and cow dung cakes,
let His divined Graceful hands
cover me with a rose garland of affinity,
to be blessed twice in this birth!

(124) The broken angel

(124) The broken angel



The angel is broken invisibly,
not because of the imaginary arrow
of the Cupid, too many even at odd hours,
nor for the nocturnal commercial
Visitor falsified, not even for the
taunts and pricks heaped upon the
Godly, not for the dastardly acts
heaped in public on the destitute,
not for the secretive plan of the
wicked husband to keep the concubine
In the same roof, nor for the expensive
Nights spent in the hotel by him,
not for the niggardly show at home,
not even for the blatant justification
Why not he roam with the keep,
but for the tenacity why should they
Submit to HIS WILL.

(123) Sacred Love.

(123) Sacred Love



A continued feeling that does not forsake
the needy in distress, foresees the pros and cons,
not expecting in return, returning only
uncorrupted and unpolluted love,
Love dipped in service of sacrifice and
Salutary ,does not settle in beds and pillows
Nor does the ‘love songs’ for bath tubs and basins,
Like the sacred tulsi leaves in Indian household,
It confines itself to the worshipful boundaries,
where the physique never comes into question
The two minds thinking alike and taking things alike,
Unyielding to mounting pressures, as pure and salutary,
as the very name of God stands for,
This is sacred love, sacrosanct and love unique;
This is the need of the hour transcending time and barrier.

121) A casual reply!.

(121) A casual reply.



After thirty years of married life,
She is shell shocked to know
a close relative made inroads into
Her private life, to ruin her peace,
and prosperity, to usurp her place
as well. He the husband became
Casual and the visits occasional,
a prey to concubine and her viles,
Cantankerous and careless
To cover-up----- volley of outbursts,
Noisy scenes and nocturnal,
disappearances, devoid of dignity.
The lady calm and stubborn,
A cool passive nod by her left hand
“ let them go to, let them go to,”
Curse be the excuse, for
No sanity prevails,
She closes her eyes, ----“let them go to”.

(116) A post-tsunami day.

(116) A post-tsunami day  (116)



It was not a planned holiday by the beach to run,
Neither a delightful dawn to jog by tender sun,
but to see, to learn and to unlearn many an experience,
much sad sights of pity and pittance.



Many decayed parts and bodies in a watery funeral,
the split birds and sea –dogs with a clean burial,
the animate became inanimate in all debris of cycle,
The resurgent waves search roll and roll to recyle.



Could I see the unremoved and irremovable piles
of mounting sea-weeds and sea-horses?
only to vie with crabs and crocodiles?
Yet the Deep in a deepening decries dirges?



Amidst white pebbles and sands, foot prints,
many a guilty to rob the victims of the jewels,
and valuables to prove the devalued symptoms,
and bodies without breath only a sickening syndrome!

The Rag picker

(109) The Rag picker



Does the rag picker stop his daily routine?
Does he don the rich robe to welter in the hot sun
to pry the scum and to load the rag bag?
Does he stop biting the second half of the apple
thrown away, an extravagant waste?
Does he paint his dark coloured skin to attract
The white-coloured blonde to dilly dally with?
Does ‘ his pride’ as a paid corporation employee
Prevent him from visiting local church?
Does his wonderful, worshipful wife wander away
Slighting his meagre pittance?
Do his fond children fail to call him ‘papa’?
Does not his tattered garment befriend him
both at home and in the street, in the garbage and in cell?
Does Nature fail because man fails ?
Does creation hide because of incessant destruction?
Do the sinners stop their heinous deeds even if God descends?
Does the God disown you even if the whole world deserts you?

(108) Abort it

(108) Abort it.



“ No! No! I cannot endure,
No! It is too much.”
A cry of disturbed wilderness,
as if struck by delirium,
A shriek of disbelief.
like a studious examinee
Struck by a series of
Questions unprepared.
Is it a blithering cry?
Or a blockbuster move?
What she is up to? why this scream
like battalions of army disintegrated?
It is a soul’s plight of denigration,
Her moments of agony and despair
domineered by demonic power,
How to extinguish the embers of stigma?
You call it a disgrace?



The penultimate day of solemnization,
hurriedly called by the military,
Wedding marred , union barred,
anxious wait for the paramour,
till now no sign of his existence,
His imprint in her womb,
many kicks to remind her of the cause,
to reprimand her for the lapse,
She is struck by contrition,
How to answer the unborn infant’s call?
her wiry thin body resists,
Her womb out of necessity endures,
Yet her spirits dampened, demoralised,
by the pricks of poke-noses,
Some intruder’s officious remarks ,
“ why not go for an abortion?
now abortion is legalised,”
Yet, her questioning soul uncompromising,
“ why don’t you abort the sinful
Sinister, heinous thought?”
She will not double her sin, sin,
She will carry his imprint,
She WILL proclaim her perpetuity
She WILL promote her dynasty.

(107) After a decade of waiting...........

(107) After a decade of waiting------



It was not a merely a lullaby,
tinged with melody and music,
nor a song in rhapsody,
yet, a rejuvenation of bygone age,
steeped in suffering and rage,
The grand car in a prize draw,
The unexpected bumper lottery,
glowing diamond necklace of
ancestral legacy, a title of lineage,
did they take me into pitched exuberance?
Often my anger was into agony,
like puffs of stream in a pressure cooker,
Opposite mirror mocked
at my anguished visage;
my sterile womb became fertile,
Spring had set in my life,
A sapling to be blossomed,
Into a Sunflower,.............
The arrival of a new--born
to augment my lineage and pride,
to bring fresh showers into my arid life,
I sang a lullaby, a lullaby
A lullaby , also to bid good by
to the branded sterile.
Blissfully ignorant , the new-born .
No, the divinely innocent slept,
Unaware of the vile, wicked tongues,
The mother’s hazardous journey,
The pitfalls and pathetic remarks
Poured by the innocuous and impudent,
Jettisoned and sounded jejune to me.
The tender sun-flower like smiled,
Smiled in the sleep, the mother wept,
I sang, a lullaby, to wake up, to pry,
The new world’s unguarded gates,
The baby smiled and smiled,
Confident of its protector,
Careless of it being introduced to
Abysmal of dismal, dingy configuration,
The baby’s smile lulled my lullaby,
The baby’s smile lured my lullaby.

(106) A baby language.

(106) A baby language




The breeze browses through the open window curtained,
like the school boy’s straight walk into his familiar class,
with strict discipline and paultry freedom allowed.

The parrot on the perambulator swings with artificial tune
In tune with the forcing breeze, a cherubic cover for the babe,
oblivious of the world with beings corrupt and mundane,

It smiles in sleep and also a baby language, thrilled by its own ,
not at all a body language in specific of men and matter,
Perhaps a move forward itself to disown!

The cherubic BABY’S COOS AND CAAS of lip rounding,
a rotation of meaningful similes and systems ,
a time-bound programmed birth’s grounding .

Innocence is cradled ,creation of God is ordained,
to undergo challenges with changes unknown,
Just as the seasons and segments are divined.

The toy parrot on the perambulator swings,
with the babe’s divined smiles,smiles, smiles,
I too partake of its smiles, smiles.

To be a babe, innocent, cradled,cared,fondled,
Is a Gift of God, nourished and cherished,
to grow, to be exposed and matured is cursed.

I wish I had been a babe for ever,
I wish the babe too to be a babe for ever,
A desire, a possibility, which is never, never.

Never desire for ever which is not near,
Never desire for ever which is too far,
Never desire for ever which is too far.

(105) A busy road in our view

(105) A busy road in our view


We drive along the green savannas too,
as green as the cherished ambition of the
Schoolboy’s future plan to be executed,
nearing the metropolitan road thronged,
Sellers’ shouts of coffee, tea bread and butter
Keep the day going, going, going.
The uncovered pits distract us
abominably shocked at the careless ,
callously kept man-holes, or death traps,
the jumping vehicles counteract hump teen
speed-breakers, perfectly shaped mounds
upside turn us to break the speed
of our lives, the crossed buffalo criss-crossed
by the laden lorry, the foul pungent smell of
the dog’s death, the garbage piles await
the arrival of the young, helpless urchins
to help themselves, the beggar’s hungry looks ,
the broken coconut chips outside
the temple, the act of the devotees amplified,
the autos replete with kids to school,
the lunch bags peeping outside,
water tankers wetting the road by wasting
through the pipes, the temple elephant
bound by the mahout, the sudden wonder of
street children, the traffic blocked;
my pen scribbles hurriedly on the pad,
the versification takes a zig zag route,
to circumvent the busy road,
The busy road, the busy road.

(104) Mirrors

(104) Mirrors



What do you call those white-glazed tiles?
Shiny , resplendent in the bath-room,
be friended by the showers of the oval-shaped bath tub?
reflected and refracted by the Belgium white mirrors,
as candid and as outspoken as the innocent children:
The bordering wooden frame nailed to the walls
forcibly yet protect the mirrors.
The mirrors sympathize like a generous lord:
You give a congenial smile,
 they are equally reciprocal,
your friendly warm laughter
doubled up by the pearly teeth,
doubled before you, definitely not dubious,
your spotted white garment
conspicuous before you, guilty,
gains at your carelessness,
your dyed hair,yet,reminds the fact,
age has indeed withered you,
you are conscious of your image,
you hold your four year old baby,
the chiselled creamy set of teeth,
embodies perfection and purity
as pure as raining droplets,
the splash of water drops in the mirror,
the nasty feel of belligerent scoop
of cockroaches, nibbling insects and pests
A blurred visibility, why this intrusion?
We are the exclusion with our carelessness.

(103) Christmas and New Year.

(103) Christmas and New Year



Ending bygone year beckons the New Year,
ushering into happenings and events galore,
mending old and yielding new and novel,
A fresh hope which the advent of Christmas to unravel.

The Birth of Christ , an event joyous and auspicious,
with cakes and candles and candelabrum(s),
the celebration which many look forward with carols,
for kids and children an aura of amplified bliss.


Yet for the poor urchins and the pauper,
a day of contentment with the wrapper
of stale bread and dried orange
A luxury which they alone can image.

Can the beggar in the street and the blind
be proud of New Year and Christmas ?
when belly is pinching and tongue parching,
will the balloons and pictures be enamouring?

Merry is a misnomer for him in the street,
whose piper is the sole comfort ,
misery and penury tie him to his fate,
till Time alone should redeem him trite!

Life for him is a barren and jejune as a balloon
will Santa Claus and cherry cake conjoin
to transmute misfortunes to miracles?
will it lead to him to a sea-change of bliss?


Yet the sombre and cold December comes and goes,
January with a fresh lease of hope leaps and bounds .

(102) Love's Lure

(102) Love’s lure



Love’s Lure.
Yonder a picture on the wall,
A mendicant with a motherless child
with a bowl of coins to proclaim
his double penury jingling, jingling,
a young tender girl sheds tears
to share her love with lone sufferer.
Oh! The four –lettered word Love,
with myriad word-- counts and meanings:
when Love’s anchor unfolds
the arenas and offspring are many,
The history of creation
for all propagation and procreation
is due to love, conjugal love,
Adam fell out of Love for Eve,
an act of negation and for
Mankind’s immediate incarceration.
A slave’s manumission sought,
out of love for freedom,
and dignity for his self.
The Almighty protects His creation
out of sheer Love,
His clemency for the cruel,
Forgiveness for wicked and vile,
is it not for the love of
His own creatures?
Just as a musician plays
with his notes,
the poet puns with his words,
Out of sheer love for his artefact,
A stroke of brush for the painter
to paint the love’s lure,
A pure love for hi s profession,
The entire universe in nocturnal silence,
for humanity is locked up
In the web of love,
If it were not for poetry and creativity,
Would I translate my enriched thoughts
Into poetry that ruled the roost
from Chaucer to Gillian Clarke
and to Philip Larkin,
Oh! My love, I dedicate this piece
So that you may have PEACE for ever.

Her metalanguage

(August theme) Her metalanguage



Feeding his wife, family, is a burden,
Duress of times’ collocations,
The Bar is his only blatant and pleasant asylum.
They pull on with a conviction
fending him with, fend off
his bugging shortcomings,
they, the sufferers are not pretentious ,
She , the house wife bears
the burden of his angst ,
Narrow, selfish and corroding,
In her blood runs the sacrificial
Urge of sacrifice and charity ;
throwing grains and rice balls each morn:
Crow and parrot in the same balcony
Caw and pour their metalanguage:
She configures the Nature and the world
from the conflicting self from within,
yet the unanswered queries remain,
how much to endure? How long?
Her metalanguage quirks .

(101) A Catch

(101) A catch


The garbage mound in the narrow street corner
Stinks of bad odour, abominable odour,
paper bits ,vegetables and decayed parts,
dried flowers, rice balls and rotten tomatoes,
apples and garnished onions in pouches
befriend the sanitary towels titled ‘whispers’,
what do they whisper ? to whom?
crumbled to corners thrown to pieces?


He measures his steps through the garbage corner,
with a hang bang on his left shoulder, a faithful friend,
he walks meticulously through bustle and noise,
to the mound of his garbage influenced by friends of flies.
an employee of the corporation office
with a meagre pittance for his sustenance.

A glittering coin----rolls, rolls,rolls,
deep down to the bottom ,settles;
He picks up the garbage waste,
what is thrown  amidst waste,
His hand anxious to catch,
A priceless catch for the day!

(100) A dissection or intersection.

( 100) A dissection or intersection



What are you up to ? is it a search for peripheral minimal?
Or soul-searching scrutiny for phenomenal eternal?
Or momentary scribbling of meaningless nominal?

What is a poem? A piece of writing
Which triggers your pen after prolonged waiting,
an attempt in versification trying,

or to portray the feelings in plain,
full of sentiments, afflictions in language to complain?
my propelling spirits induce me to refrain,


Is it an artefact steeped in puns and similes?
drawn from ancient and modern times
metaphors and poetic symbols,


myriad forms in blatant attempts,
sometimes ending up in nasty grins,
more often due to the whims and fancies,

or an affinity towards poetry Modern,
with a belief hope would transform you ultra-modern,
or a study in themes and in techniques post-modern,

Do you favour the concept of feminism?
Be it only for nihilism?
Some may construe it is only for fatalism,



Some unbiased cling to Post-structuralism,
to propagate it is not for somnambulism,
as long as the theory not for cataclysm?


Is it instantaneous impromptu child of inspiration?
Or uncouth mess of purblind perspiration?
who bothers if it is to be for exasperation?

It has too many offspring’s-----
Sonnets ,Lyrics ,Elegies and Odes,
Structural ,rhymed, free verse in different modes,


Is it the bland conviction of unflinching loyalty?
that an imitation of Dryden and Pope with fealty
would fetch laurels with ovation hearty,


Yet, creativity continues in all its forms,
Creativity flourishes at all times,
Creativity flushes all obstacles.

The wailing of a xerox machine

The wailing of a Xerox machine.

Like a disfigured , disgruntled statue,
I stand in the stuffy corner of the shop
for business, throbbing business,
as throbbing as the calling birds
in the spiralling yard.
Chirping, calling , in the calm, creative morn.
Xeroxing my poems is my creative
Business for the day.
Many with an air of punch and push,
Sweat and run stand and wait. .
The machine squeaks
A helpless cry:
Gone are those days of drudgery,
hand swollen show after manual copying,
a dexterous hand on my head,
quick press button,
I am expected to multiply,
A mother’s period of expectancy
 nine months; mine less than
Nine seconds.
I breed unwanted, unhealthy too.
I am unable to bear the load,
Crumbled sheets chuckle in the corner.

Again on London Tubes

Again on London Tube



Again on London Tubes,
intersecting North and South;
after yesteryears of hardship
slowly, creeping, Combining awareness,
you see commuters in London tubes
No romping romance, see struggle
for survival stretching far beyond,
Newspapers fritter of approval.
Yes! You have to mind the gap,
Gap, continuum between Chaucer and poets modern
waking up to days of post modern,
terribly innocent child,
Yet to study the crude world,
Ignorant parent, immersed in creativity,
Alert Trinity in incarnation ,
foraying into a wakeful dawn,
those poking itinerary
Follow you from afar,
You wheel on the London Eye,
Reach a destination beyond
The boundaries of rich galore!

(99) Taming the rider

(99) Taming the rider


He is not an ostler, not a dedicated soldier, nor even
a Seasoned man knowledgeable in matters of horse.
A rider of pleasure at his own will and wish,
always bent upon taming the good horse,
literal ride on it, right from fodder down to stable,
the mild tamed horse yields to his pressure,
even the grazing on the green savannah is
time-bound and checked by the rider,
brownish and slender the tamed brute,
is not a brute but in perfect diapason?
With the rider with the rigid bridle
and sadistic bent of mind in taming
the innocent further: the rider
more often than not has a jolly good ride,
and thanked heaven for such a mild creature.
yet his ego does not permit him to accept
Goodness and reality.
He continues to bully the brute.
The all seeing gods and all knowing gods
one day decide to test the
Rider to teach a lesson,
One day on his way back to the stable
when the sun has travelled westward,
the birds and animals reach their habitat
the sky’s blue is merged by the stars twinkling,
when The Deep is aggravated by the roaring waves,
the tired rider now walking alone chances to
see the horse flat on the ground , motionless,
seemingly sad face with a pointed arrow
on its left leg,
Appearances are deceptive, the dictum is true,
for the horse seems to be on its heals
the moment the arrow is taken,
the rider aghast, now chases, runs,
gasping for breadth, catching the strap,
but the horse kicks him so often,
that this experience is quite new,
he pats now on the brute, sits on it,
when the ride starts, alas! It comes to a halt,
refuses to move, this time a mild pat on his body,
the infuriated brute, untameable, jumps high
that the rider is tamed to the ground.

An appeal to Krihsna

An appeal to Krishna


Oh! Krishna, how can I know
you are the cow boy now,
playing hide and seek
among your pals
your tantalising flute
captivating notes
through the oaken,
timbre interlacing the
mood of forgotten days,
I am sending SOS now
Hostile arrows piercing
On all sides, don’t don
Your favourite childish robe,
Be thou in my midst
Be thou my inspiring strength,
Be thou by my side
all times strong and steady.

(98) Bracelet

(98) Bracelet



It was an ancient temple precinct
of high vaulted,oilyroofs, cracks and cleavages,
the cement floors which bore the brunt of
coconut shell as offerings
a custom of religiosity,
a time –honoured ritual, relegated.
The smoky smell of camphor and candlewick,
the glitter of candelabra coax but not choke.

I rolled down as a fulfilment of my vow,
in tune with the sacred utterances of the priest,
the plantain leaved sweet pudding and rice
immersed in ghee with cashew nut tempt
to end my vow.

How often we have visited bare-footed the local temple
braving the stones and stubbles,
the temple was the local simple  emblem   of the town,
the sole gift of a congregation for many,
not minding the distance and climbing
the steps up and down .

When I tumbled, your kind hand reached me and protected,
We dilated on domestic functions, cared for religious ceremonies.
You gifted me with a bracelet, a token of our long –standing friendship.
The coral and pearl bracelet riveted and jingled,
The coral and pearl bracelet riveted and jingled,
It was a gift kissing my veins, pierced the thews and sinews.

The coral and pearl bracelet befriended the talisman,
tied by my grandmother who was struggling for survival,
I rushed home to see my grandmother,
It was her last breath which mocked the Tanjore plate on the wall,
The oak elephant and the carpet on the marble floor,
The house that she nourished and cherished.
She lived a life of dignity and serenity,
The bracelet befriended the talisman.

From within

              From within---



You are seated in the centre of my heart
Suave and smiling, ready with a helping hand,
Set with Srushti, ordained by the Divine,
in the previous Birth sanguine and Devout,
He the Creator, set not with a Time Bound programme,
but mixing with a concretised image ,viewing outside,
from within, Eternity, the sole objective,
propelling further and further with a
goal of Devotion and NOT with denigration;
He, who set you foresaw the change and the challenge,
Changing world order towards chagrin
I bow before you, oh! Brahma,
I worship you, my Avatar,
for you alone can bear the brunt of,
You alone can redeem Humanity
from its growing tentacles.

(97) Temperature

( 97) Temperature



AS I walk the thronged city amidst hot pellets of winds,
even all the perfumes of Arabia would not wipe my sweat
the cool cotton sari as supposed to have been gifted
by my PARAMOUR who is an expert in necromancy
as imagined and concocted by a
libidinous woman, would not keep me cool,
for the heat of summer is emitting fire like boiling cauldron,
methinks sin in all its forms blows, blows in the summer winds,
yonder the thatched roof of a school catches fire,
innocent children run helter-skelter,
yes! Innocence always pays for the misdeeds of some body,
I run to the nearby shop to quench my thirst,
to my surprise a lizard in coca cola bottle,
The goddess of nemesis would form a tsunami,
Puissant , ordained in its pursuit
‘ P is silent for perfection is also silent’
before she engulfs all the sinister in her ire