Hare Rama, hare Krishna,

Where your home,What’s your name?But GentlemenWith the attache,The attacheIn the hand,Smiling,Smiling.But GentlemanSomewhat aged and balding,Smiling,SmilingTo hear them.Gentleman,Gentleman,Where you home,What’s you name?Pastoral, shepherd,Semi-urban rustic small girlsJoking, jokingAnd asking his whereabouts,But Gentleman full of smiles.Saying it not,Just smiling, smilingWith the French-cut beardsOn the chin,Fatty and agedSmiling, smiling justTo hear, hear them.

Of Sudan,Starving and being let to die,Bony and skeletonedWhen saw IThe pictures of them,The bony and starving animalsOf Sudan,Really sorry, sorry forFor such a pitiable state tTo see and view.

The Zonal Committee Secretary,The District Committee Secretary,The Sate-level CommitteeAnd the Politburo membersOf the Central CommitteeAll in connivance and cognizanceWalking hand-in-hand and gloveWith the cheroots on the lipsAnd smokingAnd going,Eating, drinking and partying together with,Taking meat, rice and vodkaAnd reading the People’s PaperAnd going to the Party OfficeTo read and start life afreshWith a reading of…

Away from too much human haunt and habitation.Archetypal, ethnic, racial, primitive and aboriginal,Stands it thereonUnder the peepul tree, the banyan tree.Dark and poor, backward and undeveloped, it tellsThe tales of human hunger, poverty, scarcity and want,A hard life it is difficult to pass indeed.

But a gentleman,A clean man indeedFrom his within,Beyond the reachOf the politicians.

With his disciplesDiscussingTranscendental meditationIn poetry,The lotus of sadhna,The guru at the centreOf the ashrama.

God gives,god gives,But hear you,God gives,GivesOne or two to rear,Not to leave on the footpathsWith a bowlInto the hands.

A lamp of hope and joyKeeping up the promisesAs everAs made and promised before,Let there be light and there was light.

To find it,Can poetry be as such,The verse meaningless, substandard and derivativeAnd copious?The slender-slender volumes of thinly-compiled verses,Third-rate, below the quality and parodied,A study in minor voices and slender anthologies,Everything lost in the jungle of crowds,Quantitatively bulky, but qualitatively weak.Self-published books brought out by vanity press,Once published not found again,Finished for ever,Never to be heard…

Poetry is poetry,Poetry is sentiment, feeling and emotion,Originating it therefromThe heart,The fountain head of feeling and emotion.A sentimental heart takes toWhat one says, how does,What does he,Nothing the reactions,Entering intoThe hurts, wounds and scars of life,None but a sentimental heart can.It is a rivulet of thought and feeling,Emotion and idea, image and reflection,Sentiments make the…

All through the nightIn the bivouac of life,But but regretted she as Innocence personifiedAfter having turned stone.

As no training has it been imparted in dancing,As lie I a natural dancer.My inspiration is my small children who want meTo dance,But no dancer am I, as I have intimated it earlier,But instead of it, my audience does not leave me.They will go finally making me dance,And on finding the house empty,I too have…

Want to seeThe Buddhist monasteries?O Mongolian,Mongolian girl,I want to see,Want to see Mongolia!Will you,Will you not take me there,To Mongolia,Mongolia?The rugged expanses,Nomadic culture,How the people and their culture,Their art and speech!

Aur mein tere yaadon ke sangKahin jaataa huya,Sapno sanjoye huye,Chandni raat hainPyarbhare swapno ke sang.It’s a moonlit night,Stand you somewhere distantAnd I with your sweet memoriesGoing somewhere,Adorning my dreams,It’s a moonlit nightFull of love dreams.

With his publication in 1980Just with AspirationsAnd since then has been attempting to write verses in English.A poet Francis Baconian and Bertrand Russellian,He goes into the toes of theirs,Inducting in knowledge and wisdom,Fact and fiction,Logic and reason.A poet humanistic, he is nationalistic and patriotic tooAs for his connection with the freedom struggleAnd being a freedom…

Mom, mum, mummyAnd the mum not an Egyptian mummy,Again, changing the tone and tuning, mama, mamma,Rounding the hands around her neckAnd my heart gaga,O, whistle you a song!Oh, the mom’ the word!But the mummy keeping mum,Hearing all that.

Is the same conservative manWhat he was in the beginning.Fakru Mian in the same short shirtAnd loosely-fitted long pyjamasWith the goatee beardsWalking his way.

There lies it my global villageAnd I with the positioning systemTracking it to reach it.