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A sea is born
A sea is born
Grievances erode in a tide of passionate cry.
Her hand is a warm pressure on a feeble shoulder.
It is so long since you have lost some salt-water.
A sea is born.
it engulfs life -
sky. blue.
Sky. Blue.
Blue. Sky. The kite. The yellow one is mine.
String has petered out like the call of her.
My mom. Sis is bored easily. Mom says,
“Girls do not come with sky. They must win it.”
Kite is mine. The short-term king of the blue.
Rooftop and concrete float under young feet.
The rival king is coming in this sky.
The red one. From that neighborhood ( Read more... ) -
Euro2008:an unofficial poem
Euro 2008: an unofficial poem
No slipup is now allowed. He utters
them, the words; as her hand slips into his.
The knockout level is a sphere where
the atmospheric pressure reaches high.
With a sigh he mumbles the solemn words
of the National anthem. Why has he
forgotten one or two lines? He should sing
it in fear and in pride. Through out the life.
( Read more... ) -
Hope? what is it to her?
Hope? What is it to her?
She presses the top of her walking stick
as if it is the “hope”, personified.
Count the number of the thud of its strokes
on the gravel path back to home.
So long is the way to the hope. Ask her.
The lamp on the table lights up. She won’t
have the power. Perhaps the electric-bulbs
will eradicate the allure of hope.
She looks to ( Read more... ) -
cafe at night
Café at night ( dedicated to the immortal painting of Van Gogh)
They wait for the stars.
The stars bring them here.
Their constellation
gathers at the place
and the night expires.
She cannot be alone in this café.
Yet, she is never with anyone. No,
the persons she comes with and those with whom
she leaves, towards her rent-house at 4th street;
are ( Read more... ) -
cafe at night
Café at night
( dedicated to the immortal painting of Van Gogh)
They wait for the stars.
The stars bring them here.
Their constellation
gathers at the place
and the night expires.
She cannot be alone in this café.
Yet, she is never with anyone. No,
the persons she comes with and those with whom
she leaves, towards her rent-house at 4th street;
are never ( Read more... ) -
to the quake victims
To the quake victims
The tail of the red toy truck can be seen.
If there is any pair of innocent hands
to play with the toy, there is no mind.
Or body.
He holds her quite and tightly. The debris
lies before them where a little body
is still confined. May be, still alive. Oh!
He knows now, how hard it is to lose hope.
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home(age)
Home
“Boys. Oh, boys.” She tells.
The bouts of cough in between.
The few of her pictures
Resting on the table with
A short leg. Sepia.
A cup of tea long past its
Prime time, now just stale
Lies there in its lonely cup.
The windows of the home
Produce an afternoon, dull.
Aunt doesn’t try to
Conceal her chuckle over
Memories of springs.
Touches that should have ( Read more... ) -
a story turned into a poetry
A story turned to poetry
Like spiders they weave a web. The incidents.
The spring on your garden and the girl who
Lives on selling flesh are meeting somewhere
At some point, some place. So, You never know
That you will meet her at this house of death.
The morgue, you in search of body, she too.
You collect it for college. She for grief.
A cliché and a ( Read more... ) -
words of a sea
Words of a sea
Words of a sea spoken in close whispers
It is an avid proponent of sky.
I wish I could lift my face to sky, blue.
Instead I decide to watch the death-pain
of a jelly fish spread and scattered on sand.
The playful pebbles stare at my wet foot,
they soon will be known to them at least for
this weekend. And, after that millions of more
( Read more... )