Hurriedly,

the poem

went out

into the street

even before it began.

 

The poem stretched its legs

and walked.

 

Soon, it had to

stop for breath.

 

Tired now, it wanted

to go back home,

but had forgotten

the way.

 

So the poem dragged itself

to a nearby tea seller

and sipping from

a tiny glass,

started singing:

 

Golden tea I really like. 

Steaming, golden tea.

 

The above poem is from my first book Reeling (2012).

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Now It’s Like This

I look at my face

in the mirror

and it’s a waste

what is the world like

just sunlight and green

and grey and blue

and white

and me

how I feel

so many buildings

I tell you

just so many

what a knot

O by the way

when they fall backwards

what a tumble

they make

how you go

through air

straight outside

and then once again

inside this jumble

see my hands

my fingers

how the index

and middle one

tremble

see this rain

in the morning

this silence this day

my ashtray

my shoes and my socks

inside them

my black shorts

hanging from a hook

so lifeless

the chugging train outside

blows the sky apart

I see the light blue struck with silver

shimmering like water flowing

and then I find myself in this boat

beginning to float

travelling to new places

that play

with the barriers of my mind

untying anything

in a bind

of those things

I now sing

ding a ling a ling.

In The Morning

I lie down in bed

and look out at the sky

a crow caws

I find it so musical

it opens up the universe

for me

turning my heart to memory

to water

to waves

and the world throbs

to this beat

and it is so relaxing

and delightful

I write with glee

like a skater

like a fisherman

and see how all this

all this slowly disappears

and memory returns with trees

in the evening

in the rain

and now I know there is no rest

I have to be

a bird cooing

and I am stuck

so I wait

and railway platforms

bus stops

and several other places

come to mind

and I look at the crowd

I look at myself

and find it has all become

a bit too much

and I have nothing

really to say

and stare

in this air

of free confusion

blowing

and just then the rocking trains

and their loud horns

echoing down the sky

bring me back to my room

and I find myself

still writing

and there are more crows

in the sky

now cawing

and then a cock crows

from the chawls here in Mograpada

a slow long call

in the clear cool air outside

it is like an avian symphony

in the sky

I listen

to the quietness

it makes

inside my heart

I decide to put aside my art

I stop writing

and go out into the day.

 

The above poem is from my third book The Branches (2015).