Wet with repentant weeping and remorse, your sighs and sobs saddening, breaking me.
Was destroyedBy the fundamentalistsAnd fanaticsFor whomReligion was allThan the countryAnd its people.
Poetry of life,
Is only importantAnd none the else,If life is then there is the worldAnd if earth is then there is life,If not how to think of poetry?
The asthi-kalasha is, but the mother not,
Yesterday had been she here, but not today,Where, where has she gone away?Opening the door this lonely midnight, what am I?What am I viewing?
Three stages come in generally
The journey from modernism to post-modernism,One who had been modern will be mod, modernistic, stylish-listic, manneristic,Post-modern,Transgressing it, traversing the domains and territories of modernismAnd it will be a return back or a step forward.
When I see the flowers, I feel shame in calling myself a poet,
So radiant, so colourful and fast,So sparkling and caclking.When see I them hanging in the forest tracts,On the pathways,Gardening or of a wild varietyOr of the weeds and grasses.You just see them with love, they will give you pleasure,So fine, so fresh and fragrant,Delighting to the core,So finely poised.Again, when see I the children in…
I just see the modern man
Mom, mum, mummyAnd the mum not an Egyptian mummy,Again, changing the tone and tuning, mama, mamma,Rounding the hands around her neckAnd my heart gaga,O, whistle you a song!Oh, the mom’ the word!But the mummy keeping mum,Hearing all that.