Of birds, beasts and flowers,
So casual and occasional,
Eventual and non-serious.
And for taking poetry lightly
Spoils he his poetic genius,
A poet switching over to fiction
And endowing with poetic prose,
Really, a dark genius.
A poet of the ship of death,
The dark journey of oblivion,
He is religious in poetry
A poet of the dark gods
But poetry is but verses to him,
Tidbits, rough drafts,
Sketches circumstantial
And occasional,
Autobiographical,
Overflows from the pen.
What is it in my unseen fate?
The lady love whomDescribe you secretly and stealthily as the love of your poetry?You may say that your mistress’s eyes are not like the sun,The cheeks not rosy,Lips not pink or coral-like,But I will.The eyes of my mistress dark and beautiful, lovely and deepThat see I, go I seeing on,The lips of my darling pink…
To Tibetan PlateauTo Mongolia, Russia,The yaks,Long-haired bovidsWith the long, dense furHanging overAnd with the sturdy legsThe shortish lambish yaksSo beautifully hued.
How great sitaristHad you beenThat quit you for himWho but deserted you in return!
But touch you notThe blondeUnder yoga teaching,O false Indian babaji!
Vanish of sightAs you knowOut of sight, out of mind.Thanks,I am going,But remember,Call you me not back again!Abhi tak jinda hun,Maraa jo nahi hun,Yadi tum maar dogeTo mei mar jaayungaNahi to abhi nahiHausalaa jo buland hai.Till now am alive,Have not died,If you terminate meThen shall be terminatedOtherwise notAs the courage is undaunted.
