In makeshift bed they would lie
And touch a death to feel softly.

Now the year would mingle salt
And difficulty of death with life.

We are idiots inching to a love.
Cold ? He asks and we say very.

(Remembering Dostoevsky’s novel The Idiot)


The old dreamer

Dreams are made of a year gone.
The dreamer has weakening eye
Limited by pharmaceutical tears,

A snow white beard old and wise,
Quivers with quaint wintry poem
In frosted words of an evensong.

(remembering Thomas Hardy’s new year poem The Darkling Thrush)

Not in ideas

Bus conductor is routine poet
With ticket punching machine.

With a click, there is a journey
Because he is a bus conductor.

Poem is in things, in machine,
In the click of ticket machine

In the square bag on shoulders
Hanging by  the routine poem.

Conductor is in Bangaluru bus
Not in ideas but in our things.

(After a poem Patterson by William Carlos Williams)


It is not silence at the edge of sound
In a brief highway of the paddy fields

That occurs between town and town.
Noisy chickens often cross highroad

And men are found lying on the road
In a helpless pool of drunken silence.

I remember more an awkward silence
That rules as a dialogue breaks down

And all the answers in her eyes do not
Address the questions in your throat.