The cat seems messing and not gone
With a kitten held by its loose scruff.
Mom cat is searching for other night.
The scraping of the night is a sound
In the inner lobe of the ear’s poems.
Cats are poems on your hot tin roof
They sky-drop , flow as rain waters,
Snaking through roof’s corrugations.
(A gentle recall of Raja Rao’s novel The Cat and Shakespeare)
A body lay there in the room,
With flies and people buzzing.
Tomorrow noon it’ll go down
Into the bowels of the earth .
This body had a fatal hunger,
Just like the woman in its life .
Serial chilly crackers sputtered
Like sesame seeds in frying oil.
Kids lighted earth-pots of light
And ran back,in rain and fright.
Earth pots sent up fire flowers
In falling rain like trees of light.
Rain did not dampen crackers
Nor cracked kids’ festive spirit.
Self-publishing is self auction
In cyber desert’s marketplace.
Be poet about and after death.
Be dead and gone after poetry,
As extrapolation of long walk
For your inside to watch dawn,
A price received by mind from
He that gave minds to bodies.
(Referring to Emily Dickinson’s poem Publication-Is the Auction)
Some moons look light bulbs hovering
On rooftops, co-existing with coconuts.
They are moons, not dim-wit light bulbs,
Partly broken with some moon missing.
But they stand by the listless coconuts
Encouraging them with their fine cool.
Year after year are our old sounds,
Cracking up, soon to sizzle down,
Like asteroids in the obscure sky.
Let there be light and less sound,
For scared dogs of shrunken tails.
Dog tails share death fear with us.
What caused such a big tumult
Between you and a vague other
Near the school’s rickety steps
That it outlived you and other
Like museum ,all things vague
In the city’s defined existence?
The only thing clear is tumult.
All else about the faces is blur.
(Referring to the poem The school where I studied by the Israeli poet Yehuda Amichai)