With the horizons lurking
And mixing somewhere at a distance?
Who the Maker of scenes and sights,
The woods, hills, trees and rocks,
Marshes and hilly terrains,
Valleys, rivers, fields and fallows?
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The art of the satirist
The art of satireIn pursuance toIts fulcrum.The art of satireNoneBut the satirist knows,None but the satirist.Attacking, boxing, showing fists,Full of personal enmity, hatred, malice, vengeance,Jibe, slander, vehemenceOr rivalry brewing.
A golden statue
Historical and oldInto the hands of mine,What am I,Am I seeing, God?Found from the rubbleAnd debris ofThe falling temples,The temples dilapidating and oldDating back to an ageGone byOf yore.
Shiv-Shankara
Standing beforeMattedAnd in the rudrakshaWith the damru and the trishulaAnd the snakeAnd in the kundalaBlessing with one handThe sadhu, yogi, fakiraThe blue-neckedWith the three ash lines.
Tusu,
Into the handsThe women folks singingAnd asking for,Singing the songsIn her honourAnd telling ofHer love and painThrough folk songs.
A Parsi man of Parsi heart,
A police officer by professionBut an M.A.in English,He is a tragedian,One concerned with depicting life otherwiseJust taking Blakian ignorance,I mean the tiger,The Ted Hughesian hawkAnd the Alfred Lord Tennnysonian Nature red in tooth and clawAnd the Robert Browningian monologues,The Aristotlean tragedy as delved deep in Poetics.A poet of the morgue, the post-mortem house,Violence, murder, bloodshed,Accident…
The yellow-legged green pigeon
Flying in droves,Coupling withAnd in pairs,The hariyal,The parakreet,The yellow footed green pigeonflying overTo the tree tops,Perched on the branchesLooking strangely,The hariyals,Green hariyals,Yeello-footed hariyals.