Over the chair he sits on.
Can’t say, where has he gone,
Is he within the campus or outside,
Works or passes time?
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Rustic song
At the rustic beatOf drums and conventional music,Song and dance.With the bagpipeThe folk will dance,Sing and play,The song too as suchThat it will.The artistes tooIn plain, awkwardOr country clothesSinging, dancingAnd playing openly.The jhumursMaking hearers thrill,With the pastoral speechSo sentimental and emotional.
For learning English, I do not want that my personal life should be as such
With my wife speaking Angika dialectOr Bhojpuri or Magadhi or MaithiliWith their own tonal effectsAnd if live I in India, shall I fail in becoming an EnglishmanAnd if not a native speaker,Why can I not be a manWith impeccable English,Pronouncing as a native speaker,King’s English.So, have I decided to leave India, the rural IndiaOf villages…
As a poet
The school of maya.Maya my wife,My children,House and the world.Maya my life,My family,My worldAnd I a small manFrom the world of maya.
Jadopatia,
The artist and his pata,Scrolls,Drawn and sketchedOn leavesOr on the wallsAs motifsReflected in,The rock carvings,Stone inscriptionsAs flowers, buds and imagesCarved, engraved,Leaves, flowers, buds,Animals, drums,Men and womenAs simple folk.
Where are you, my shepherd love,
Grazing the goats,Coming with the wild blossomsTo give to?
The black cow, the black dog, the black cat,
All black-black, black and beautiful.