It looks as if  world is short
Of oxygen in its cylinders

Baby heads swell to burst.
Cylinders sleep like babies

While total world’s oxygen
Stays buried in their sleep.

(Seventy babies die in a hospital due to a shortage of oxygen supply attributable to administrative malfeasance )

Sweet dog

Dog is sick and in pain
And we may be gentle

With the sweetest dog
We call Bengali sweet

So full of loving drool.
A tail trembles in love.

May gentle uncle take
Dog to its gentle death?


Rocks were lying by the road
In random order as if strewn

All over country by stranger.
They had twisted bodies on

Souls formless by meaning
And joy and pain of a being.

A few looked like thinking,
And as if made by humans.

(On visiting the fantastic rock formations of Oravakal in Andhra Pradesh)

Blind spot

My eye would spot a shrub
Leading a  lonely existence

Somewhere down in slope.
I had this blind spot in eye

Mind would fill in at  point
Where the shrub led its life.

For all I see in a visual field
It might have been a sheep.


The sea , where we had met
Was in sleep and had waves

That took body with  pincer.
We call them scissor waves.

Near sea was a wooden god
I would later meet in dream

To ask why for wind to blow
A baby should forget its dad.

Fever in the bones

Death danced in  timeless bone.
It was intimations of mortality.

Woman had the underlined eye.
Beneath was dumb daffodil bulb

And  wind woodshed through it
And laughter was raucous skull.

But to all these calculated bones
We see love and poems clinging

As if the calcium has still a fever
Much after pneumatic bliss goes.

(Reading T.S.Eliot’s poem “Whispers of Immortality”)