And what is poetry
Yet still I keep going
I listen
There is a crone
With long and grey hair
Who secretly keeps the key of writing.
She lives in a mysterious
And far way land
And her heart is bigger than her head
She never talks much about others
And tells her own story herself
She talks less and never gives
But shows the keys of her secrets
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in a poem
more importanta very difficult propositionto tell or chooselikewhich one is firstegg or henbut the clever boy saysboththe master smiles and askswhy then all the linguists are not poetsin a paintingis it the theme or the drawingmore importantit is againlikedrawing a circle without boundarybut the clever boy saysboththe master smiles and sayswhy not then all thinkers…
A Black Hill
In color jet blackMade by step by stepLayers upon layersSince its birthIt cannot speakNor could it hearBut walks with speedIn the cornersWhere it is formedTurning, twistingWrithing and moansSits upAnd rollsLike a statueIn surging painsFrom the thingsUnspoken and untoldIt starts meltingAnd becomes a streamSince I met with youFlows like a rivuletWith a murmur sound
When you come in and go out
you take over my traditionalwisdom And I give in to myfoolishness, you feed me toswell with Pride and I breedflattering vanity which instigatesme to fall in love with myself.
Though sound is not gracious enough
Yet I very closely see the handsOf all the classic musicians beating drumsAnd feel from the very coreThe tickling rhythmsIn the corpuscles of my bloodBut I can’t express themAs speech is not gracious enoughTo bless me who is born without wordsYet I keenly notice the curlOf the artistic lips of a great leaderWhen they arouse…
The captain goes to play
Along with the playersEntered through the back doorsSelected by their uncles
Oh moon I would bow down
If you could make me a poetAll day long I wouldSing your song praising youBut I see not you are a king makerNeither do I see you possess the powerNeeded to dethrone me, so I fear notWhen you are too harsh on me.
It
What,
What it is,
It is in your heart,
Heart
Just see you,
See you from far,
From far,
One known from far,
Far from,
Not moving close,
Closer to you!
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I saw her breaking stones
Working under the strong sunThe dark-complexioned maidenBut with a good heartBeating the heat and summerMaking the roadsFrom which cross the passers-by,The carts of conveyanceAnd she making the roadways,Working for the bituminous ways.
Is she an English poetess
Or an Oriental fellowOr an ashramite of the Pondicherry AshramaOf Sri AurobindoHolding talks with K.D.SethnaThe poet and critic and sadhaka,Who is sheContributing to London Poetry?
Is of
The gipsies,Nomadic peopleDiasporicOf races, ethnicity,Power and politics,Ghettos and taboosHereditary and patriarchal.Culture studiesOf cultural space,Get youAnd give it to others.
With tears into the eyes of yours,
You a lonely girl?With depression, despondence and dejection,Where will you, my love?Those who have betrayed you, haven’t they you,They have themselves.
A writer where hid he,
Moving from house to house,Place to placeUnder the protection,Escorted toUnder the guise ofA different name,The name changed toAnton JosephIn between Conrad and ChekovAnd this was the aftermathOf Satanic VersesAnd the fatwa upon himIssued toAnd he as a fugitive,A refugeeRunning for cover,Under the disguise ofAccompanied by protestors,Guards and security staff,Spies and intelligence fellowsAnd he remembering, reminiscing…
I wept
And the teardrops,Teardrops spilledThe eye-lids,Eye-lidsSplashing,Splashing the eye-lashes,Eye-lashesUnder the open skies,Open skiesFull of stars,Twinkling starsWiping,Wiping my tears,Hiding,Hiding from the worldWith my hands,My hands.
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Got the light from,
The glowworm fascinating
With its glow and glimmer
Giving the star twinkle
Of the starry night illusions
So bespectacled and illuminating?
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Who am I,
What my name,What my identity?Where my home,Can you?
Leonard, your Suzanne, Suzanne, search I, search I? Who this Suzanne, Suzanne? What the inspiration binding upon? How the relationship? Suzanne in love, Suzanne in dreams. Suzanne, where from, China, South Asia, her journey from, her settlement, rehabilitation? Or one of Asian diaspora? A bohemian dancer, a music maker? The gipsy girl with telling different stories?
Leonard, Leonard Cohen I searched, searched your Suzanne, Suzanne, but found it not, the source and inspiration of your wandering mind, mind and heart, wandering, wandering love? Suzanne, who is this Suzanne, Cohen? Your Platonic love, your love Platonic, let it be, be up to Plato to resolve.
Poetry going digital
Came to the mindAnd got uploadedAnd archived.Poetry on the Intranet,Web portals,Just click you,Touch you the screen,Press you the button.Poetry instantaneous,Poetry as impressionsPassingCaught on the camera of the mindPassing images.Poetry electronic,Poetry electrical,Poetry mechanical and technical,Poetry industrial and urban,Poetry using in digital tools.Everything but data,If the net connectivity is availableAnd you can access,You may viewOtherwise deleted if…
Not
Plugged into the earsFro musicAnd the mobile phoneHandset men,But the crow-hairedBlackiesOn the roads,I meanThe street loafersNot with the studsOn the ear lobesBut withThe crow-haired,Crow cut hairMistersWanting to beFashion designers,Stylists,Mr. Handsomes.
You are yourself so beautiful to look at that
So attractive and lovely,So fascinating and charming indeed.On looking you, my pen stops it,As if someone holding the penAnd asking me,You do not write, do not,See the lovely maid,Just see her,Not less than your poetry.
Feel I spirited
Mystically and mythically,The verses transporting me intoA different worldAnd I hearing the footfall of Bhagavati,Devi Durga.The Chandipatha,The sacred mantras of it,The verses so pious and holySo exhilarating and elating,So divinely enthralling and spiritedTaking into the shelter of Bhagavati.
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Want to ban
Chinese goods,
Are they not good,
Are they not useful?
What have the goods
To do
with politics,
What have the companies
To do it here,
Think of it too.
Think of the company men,
The people associated with,
Workers and labourers,
The investment and machine tools
Applied in
And the plants set up.
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Time,
Keeps it rotating,TimeMechanical and Cosmic.
Pitri-paksha,
Worship of forefathers, ancestors,Offerings for forefathers, ancestors,My salutation to them,My offering of respect, homage toForefathers, originator men, for the patriarchs,Respect for,Pinda-dana.With the end of the pitri-pakshaThe beginning of the matri-paksha.Pitri-paksha,Pitron ko ahuti,Pitron ki puja,Pitron ke prati naivedya,Unko mera naman,Meri shraddhanjali,Purvazo, adi-purusha, pitaron ke liyeiShraddha,Pinda-dana.Pitri-paksha ki sampti ke saathMatri-paksha ki shuruyaat.
While bowing my head before, whom should I bow before,
Big and beautiful, the Ma Eternal,Or the poor, helpless and neglected old womanSitting before the door-steps of the ashrama?And passing through the way, cast I not a glance,The cursory glance I averted thatIn passing through the wayAs I left the idea of bowing before the Deity.This is all that that I faced it myself, was…
This world of today
RappingAnd striking,VocalizingWith content, rhyme-rhythmAnd delivery-cadence-toneTracked instrumentallyWith the beat of time.
Oh, you are not my own,
How beautiful are you,Let me touch you,Your cheeksAnd lips,Your eyesAnd noseAs may not again!One day you will pass away, my love,Pass out of sight unsaid,I shall search you,But shall not find youSo, let me see you in full, my love,Are you not my own,Will you go away?
Rocket women,
Astronauts, cosmonauts,Moon-talkers, space-walkersIntercepting aliens,Aliens in the spacefrom Mars or elsewhereFrom this universe.
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Modn, modnistic or post-modn?
My grandfather and grandmother had not been,
My father and mother
Turned they into daddy and mummy
And now is she mum, mom,
I dad and pa.
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I doubt
Had it been, they would have,But they have not.
Dancing
In your styleWith the shirt uppedOver the headJust like a statueWith the steps taken backwardsAnd you retreating,Counting down.Michael, you sire,A break dancer,A disco dancer,A rock n roll and a jazz dancer!A master of dancing,Dancing art,A torso,The torso separatedFrom the bustAnd the bust from the torso,Such is your posture!
And for truth, for the sake of truth,
A king never born,Never will be born againAnd the gods putting him to test,Giving troubles tobut he feeling not the pressure,Letting it go.O, lo, his son Rohit has been bitten by a snakeWhile picking flowersEarly in the morningAnd serving as a menialAnd the queen too unable to maintain herself,Everything but gone,Out of the hands, the…
Jimmy, Jimmy,
Jimmy, Jimmy,The disco music calling you,The beats and dance,The English European tone and tuning!Jimmy, Jimmy,The stage is ready,Ready for you,For you, Jimmy,Jimmy, Jimmy,Come, come, O you!Come on, come onTo the stage,Hey, hey you, Jimmy, Jimmy,The disco music,The disco music has started calling,Calling you,Jimmy, jimmy, come on,Come on.Yeah, yeah, I have,I have come, come,Lo, I have,…
The old sardarji, the grand old man of letters, Khushwant Singh,
But the journo,I mean the columnist, the feature writerThe interest of oursMaking us bubble with humour,Tickling and entertainingWith his lively jokes, funs, puns and voice imitations,Taking lassi not, but beverageThrough a straw pipe and saying the things of his own,Doing the caricature and sayingThe old man with a turban sometimes looking very normal,Sometimes dyeing the…
Under the starlit skies
Who are you, yoga-yoginis,Sevadasis and devadasis turned stone,Nautch girls?Under the mystical night thinking I mystically and mythicallyAll about the myths of life and love.
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Oh no, ’tis not
that there would be
a pressing need
to share,
with you
or anyone
as there is not.
I write these words
to re-assess,
perhaps,
but mostly
to live through
the wondrous time
with you,
again.
I know you will
forgive me
if you find
a smudge,
or even two
as I remember
yours,
they were so small,
barely equipped
to hitch
a ride
on gravity. I kissed
those tears,
surprised
at me,
as I would
other times
and loves
avert my eyes.
Men do not cry,
so it is said
and it is true.
For you
there will be times
where
tears of shame,
or anger,
sadness
overflow
to signal that
all is not well.
My tears
come from the
deepest well
down,
near the bottom
of my soul.
They speak in whispers
as they blink
and see through bleary eyes
the picture that is you.
I love you
as you know
and may I tell you
that I love
those little tears,
just knowing
that they are
from YOU.
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And sipping from his favourite wine
fell down, its name was ominouswas it from a Miss Sourpuss?Or was the matter a mistakehe slept while she was wide awake?Her sunnies had the deepest tintbut he was sure he got the hint.Of all the creatures, blessed bethe one who holds the purple key.
The worm had made it,
arrived, fresh and alertand looked around.They’d placed him there,among the lettuces and leeks,a thousand acres of fine greens,oh, he would thrive and stay alive!Midmorning came, the little manturned on the water, a fine mistto freshen up the greens,it caught him unawares, he fell,was swept onto the vinyl floorwhere fibers of a giant mop preside.By afternoon…
The PEARLY GATE.
St. Peter needs to asksome simple questions.As if they didn’t know,up there,with perfect views,and looking down,to get their kicks,I’d say.‘Why, then, my child,you had a ratherhopeful start,so promising,why did you change? ‘I well rememberwatching you,you were in,speaking thermally,near scalding water,events were moving,like molecules(our tiny children) ,in agitation,move faster.It’s what we see,omnipotent,all- knowing, yes,confirm for mewhy…
If your house has been built of good stone
and to languish withinwith your old mandolinwith the music or, simply alone.As the elements mount their attackproper stone will resist, does not lackif it’s made from veneer,you have reason to fearthe appearance of aging, a crack.Even stone of the best qualityand the timber obtained from a tree,won’t take kindly at allto an acid-rich squall,it may…
Sag mir wo die Blumen sind,
liebte Blumen schon als Kindheute bin ich alt.Blumen lieben mich nicht mehr,doch bin ich getrieben,Spieglein, sage mir nur wer.Wachsen sie im Wald?Nein, ich fand sie, sie fand micherst hat sie geschrieben,Echo sprach Ich liebe diches it nie mehr kalt.Blumen, ja, sie duften fein,ihren Busen lieben,Und fuer immer ist sie meinnur der Tod sagt Halt.
There was an election in Rome,
But they all carried knivesin their piteous lives,as they met in their ancient old dome.And they fleetingly mentioned the Pope,who had recently talked about hope.Then the fighting began,it was man against man.And their tongues were as slippery as soap.Of the one hundred hopefuls that came,only fifty were senile and lame,all the others were oldand their…