Just like the ship of the desert,
The camel going,
A figure bizarre and obscure,
Deformed but strangely-built.
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On the one hand lay it the Sai temple
A proud burqawalli crossingHer wayProud ofGoing her wayOblivious of Sai Baba,Sai Baba of PuttaparthiAverting the gaze,Without bowing the head before.
Poetry of heart, poetry of soul,
Heartlessly, soullesslyIf not held in confidence?
The blackly goat
From this to that oneMarking the passengerBy the foot bridgeEating the bananaOr some eatable thingTo pick,The black goat,The standing halted trainAt the railway haltAnd the passenger eatingOn the foot boardOf the trainAnd the goat lying in waitSo earnestly.Fo the foodstuff.
You may call her, but I cannot call her a bad woman
May be good for youAs who knowsWhen will one come to one’s helpWhen all turn their faces away from you,Think of that time, situation and circumstance.I cannot call her a bad woman as she is not what you think aboutAs whom call we bad are not,Whom think we good are notBut the adverse ofWhat we…
If one reads Indian English poetry for the first time,
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…