Here in India
And those had to be
Are walking on the footpath,
This is India
Where genius is called abnormal and is ridiculed,
Genius dies a poor death.
Similar Posts
The path, where does it take to,
Where does it take to?
A huge dark statue
Before,O, youGo notWithoutSeeing HerA huge dark black statueOf Kali,You come and goAfter seeingHer,The Mother,The Mother of the worldInto whose HandsIs life and death.
The girl is very beautiful,
A love lyric,A love song, a sad song,A sketch or a reflection,A dream is she,A flower in flesh and blood,Sensuous and sensual.A story or an image,A painting or a photograph,If paint you her,Picture you,Snap the photo of hers,She may turn intoAn album of photographs,A dairy full of her word-pictures,Her talks and images,Like you, but see…
Poetry as an art
Writing artistically,Art for art’s sake.Just paint the portraits,Pencil and silhouette,Draw and sketch,Line and draw.Art for art’s sake,Not didacticism,But art, pure art,Its aesthetic sense and beauty.
While passing through the way
The black pig lying byAnd the piglets sucking,Sucking the breast competitivelyEnjoying to fullAnd the motherly pig enjoying rest.I saw it allJust one day while passing byThe red soiled roadCrossing in between the bushesThe piglets just like small boysSucking the breast of the motherLying flat on the groundIn a reclining state.
Happy Christmas is coming,
The lambs and the small children, my pastoral love,In which hamlet home of the countryside,Lie you playing?