Wednesday, January 13, 2010

Other poems

Not a Book
Man is not
just ruffling pages
of an old book crouched in the
shelves of a library.

He is more like a squizzed diary
with crumpled pages
full of quizzical lines
from becoming to being
or the reverse.

He clasps the diary
keeping it in his cosy lap
and indulges in turning the pages
and reading the quizzical lines.

New Year

When new year intrudes
from the ruffling leaf of the calendars
I point out the Jocund Janaury
and fantasized Febraury.

Till December's chilly dart
seizes me
I myself become a calledar
where the months and days drag me
like the ants which drag a dead insect.

Then I become cllaendar of
silent wall
where there are no ruffling pages
that flutter with the wind.

River and Rock
My father asks me to be a rock,
and my mother asks to be a river.

I fear rivers have all meandering routes
and and rocks too undergo for years.

My flesh is my rock
and my blood is a river .

I fail to pay promises :
that my parents best cherish.
I am both rock and river:
I flow like a river in my dream.
Like one that flows
Through the meandering routes
Under the crevasses of land.

My rock is as a schocking boulder.
It stnads across the river pass.
I sense a vague fear

not to lose my rocky and riverly self.


Big oracles
fly after the rising sun
in the east.

Lark's morning swift
with the sky .

In the distant hut
puffs up smoke:
transmission of hopes
lighted with
yellow rays.

Forlorn Daisy

Forlorn daisy
fiddles with the wind .

There in the bush
Wind is in drapple.

Phesant's tail
briskly bewilders
fluffing butterflies
in mess of suck.

Gentle cloud
build of hedghog's efforts
in that quietness.

The earth beckons
turmeric sky
tipping with blood.

Night Drama
As the dark night began to stagger
through her pigsty room
vampires would begin knocking
with bang and drunkard notes .

Soon her presence becomes void
in that chilly night's casement
She could surmise
surely a demon to stept in.

The door started creaking
in the horrendous force of conquer
she began to remain the dwindling flesh
submerged with her moaning heart.

Her faiths of life
got squizzed into shivering pain
Her langurous hands
would not deter the horrifying hours.

No soul was there to see
except her ruffled sari.
The martyrdom she was to set
to be devoured by the ghastly night.

The byllying force crushed her
in to black cynder of fate.

What one could expect of her
except a log of wood
where ants would crawl
as long as they wish.

( Note: This poem was composed after reading a heartrendering tale of a young girl who was sold into the Indian brother in Mumbai India.)

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