In the seven colours that make light
The sun’s fiery chariot swiftly moves
Towards the equinox, our own thing
In backyard, a cross-square of twigs
That turns a chariot on a bean leaf .
Our rice and milk ,stewed in smoke
Tastes exquisite, like his warm gold.
We love our sun but cannot see him
With naked eyes ,except in a smoke
Or when fully eaten up by our earth.
(rath saptami we celebrate as the day when the sun was born ,with a replica of his chariot with twigs on a bean leaf)
It is due time to start to be happy.
A phase beggars away in no time.
It is words that decide the course.
Just now a light bathes foreheads
In phrases, in unusual oncoming.
Houses feel feverish in foreheads
And a warm light bathes phrases.
The grimness is hardly brow-knit-
‘To be and not to be’ reconciled.
Let there be a coming upon light.
Don’t ever leave the room for the sun
Who is easily imagined on your bed.
You can imagine the vast wild spaces
With burning rock and blue peacock.
Do not leave the room for your food.
An orange man will deliver it at door.
The orange man will bring sun shine
To leave a bit at the door, with food.
The seasons grow tired of an old body
With an added sugar and old salt to it.
Yet the old body writes its new poems
As if the body has time for all seasons.
(reading Yehuda Amichai’s poem “A Man Doesn’t Have Time In His Life”)
Another dawn is a new gift
With the sea, the new sea
And it is crows come alive
On rocks green with moss.
I gloat at three A.M. to be
Glad to receive a new gift
After ignorance of a night,
In a body steeped in sleep.
The poet can’t be stranger
At that hour, before dawn.
Dead turtles wash ashore.
Crows come alive for gifts.
Our nation is still unfinished,
Our homes receive illegal power.
One day, the notice is slapped,
And light is withdrawn by law.
And law is a big mess of wires,
The court’s clerks hang by them.
Bodies put off their testaments.
It is from tangle of legal wires.
Some day we stop giving a damn
To this giant work in progress.
We will come to love the cellar.
A nation is a work in progress.
We are multitudinous you & I,
As everyone is always so near.
Our parts shine through body
But the whole rarely glistens.
There is overwhelming colour
In our camera, seeking beauty
Parts of wholeness by the tree
A green multitudinous whole,
When it sheds loveless leaves
To multitudinous craven dust.
My sit-up rakes up a few butterflies
With Emily on the other side of river
Where we hope to meet after boat,
With our butterfly wings left behind.
We too have butterflies in stomach
The dead wings preserved in poem.
(Remembering poet Emily Dickinson)
Outside, rain is wide awake.
It may have had its dream.
I hear soft sound of dream
On footpath,near food cart.
That food cart is dreaming,
In its rain soaked tarpaulin
With muffled dream sound
And the smell of eaten food.
My sleepless thoughts were mainly of guilt.
A very long scroll stretched to a starlit sky.
I tried to arch over vast expanse of space
To see where the record of my guilt ends.
But ‘tween us two I can’t be blamed for it .
I now lay the blame for this ,at your door.