Grass is my self’s multitudes
Like hill woman’s grass head.
Old beard is autumnal grasp,
Mine in monsoon’s wetland.
Both are multitudes in a self
Mired in sprinkler’s pant-leg
Grass is my barefoot’s tingle
Spreading through cold toes
From bitter be-dewed night
When stars fall to their dust.
(remembering Walt Whitman’s Song of Myself)
Rain and lights are unreal to sky.
But a joy flutters in small heart.
Chillies sputter a serial outburst.
Dragonflies whizz past memory.
Joy refuses to be a damp cracker.
There is wet rain in night of sky.
Its patter comes alive in a body,
Heart aflutter with a new hope.
If it is difficult to open poem
Come inside to hear sea gulls
Gulls are waves of a thought.
We are composing our wave
The poem about an oblivion,
A sea where old poems went.
(reading John Ashbery’s poem Not Beyond All Our Conjecture)
One never knows if the mom
Has to be kissed a good night
And you be called a moronic
Sissy on a first day of school
Or some such catch at throat
Where all you have is lump.
When you lie dead in room,
You may be duly composed
Till worms catch your throat,
Make you a bit decomposed.
Back home , we commit nuisances.
But we love humanity deep down
Where death is comfort like mom.
We have not heard of Rohingyas.
Perhaps they have not heard of us
As we both keep pace with death.
We love humanity in deep down
Feeling death comfort like mom.
(reading e.e.cummings poem”humanity I love you”)
Loved woman had snakes in hair.
She would turn you stone to look.
You must not go near a tamarind
That has snake tresses in its dark.
And death lives in a cave of trees.
The body turns stone by looking.
(Punished for love in a temple, Medusa has snakes for tresses and turns a man stone who looks at her)
We are awaiting the call of doctor
Whose death is buried in that wall
And my own, a subtext, in the mag
Touches a wall ,where sockets live
And phones die numbers of times
And the newspaper dies with men.
Every thing dies of something else.
A summer sun crawls nevertheless.