Drowning holes

In the November of our lives
We  are heading to far  seas

Where sea’s snails drill holes
To drown by each sea wave,

Holes like kids’ swirling tops
Losing a momentum to spin.


Cyclone is an eye

In that eye of a cyclone Okhi
Were fishermen on high sea.

When ,at boat, eye got angry
The men would go down sea.

Okhi is storm’s eye in Bengali,
But the last words are Tamil.

And the fish that were to die
Speak no language under sky.

Carpe diem

There is a tide that comes
In general affairs of men.

It is in a rhythm of sound
Of the blare of car horns.

Car sounds are the affairs
Men seize as carpe diem

In loud boom and dance
Of many people as waves.

Road to the sea

We now cross the roads between
Lakes dotted with fish and scales

Butchers hanging with carcasses
For Sunday’s late rising gourmets,

Trees’ shadows dallying with lake
In its horse hoof hyacinth growths.

We leave behind white memories
Seeking  new road to the blue sea.


Be not born, if you can help it.
Bear no kids if you can help it.
Wear smirk,if you can’t help it.

Be dead and composed always.
When belly thinks of the dead,
It goes in swirls in a chemistry.

(sutras are neat Buddhist aphorisms for practicing and they also mean threads- kids are your running threads after your death in the form of a chromosomal double helix)

Looking death in the face

While the poet looks at  death
In face ,through music, where

Not understanding is exquisite.
It is the ununderstanding Raga

What makes breathless to God
As He climbs down empty sky

Expanding breathlessly his life
To infinity of not understanding.

(Reading a passage from Wendy Lesser’s book Room for Doubt regarding the power of music to grant relief from grief)