A dancer’s beauty sleep

The winter breeze strikes mildly. But  soon it will be spring around the parrot green bench.

This morning we remember the dancer for beauty who was recently horizontal to the sky. A week ago  she dropped her body for dust. Her daughter would  dance her drop, beside her horizontal body. What beauty !

Daughter danced by her in her beauty sleep. The stars watched her from the roof!


In the New York city (The Awl,19th February2017), the saddle horses stood immense and placid, into motionlessness ,awaiting riders.

Here a saddlehorse kicked a motorcycle rider on the road to death. Into his motionlessness.

On the road to death .An unintended construction. But now it has an image that describes so aptly the way death overtook the motor biker on the Hyderabad road a few days ago .

Our mornings are intact

This morning we were led up  ,by words,  to intact mornings. Icarus failed to fly on waxen wings  and dropped down peacefully as the farmers furrowed their land. Our monkey God rose to meet the sun fruit only to return with a red apple mouth .

It did not matter we failed . Our mornings were intact.

The almond tree forgot all about the maroon leaves it had dropped a few weeks ago. It is now green spring in its leaves. A pocket music sang of the many women of Krishna with only one in his heart.

In the neighbor green bench there is now  an absence where  was a stretching girl. Girl now stretches  morning runs, clockwise.

The song in the pocket asks Radha why she is not singing her love song.

It does not matter we have failed.
The farmers quietly plough lands
And sun is burning in eastern sky
And vow, our mornings are intact.


She who warmed our old stomachs dropped a pomegranate in our palms . Pomegranates save a lot of forgetting. Mom had her own things to forget against a white wall of a dark night. She bumped into the wall  of forgetting .

Luckily she did not forget where her hand was, unlike the other woman who shuffled her feet like early morning birds. Or the other woman who forgets where she hid her comb in dishevelled hair.

Another woman who had no pomegranates forgets where she had left her baby in the Saturday market.

And now even after many pomegranates we keep  forgetting where our  mom hid her shadows


The boy who tried to tease fate was not getting ahead anywhere, on his motor cycle, for two seconds lead over bus and bus got angry and the life forces flowed in a thin capillary network in a five feet wide white clothed space looking beyond a blue opaqueness.

It is then tubes ,air and liquid ,white robed men sitting in judgment.We have seen it happening again ,not knowing why some days it is not the same sky and green patches ,liquid shadows and train hoots ,why unfeeling buses turn angry.

And why denial starts down there in the depths of tangled bowels that hid nut shaped flesh machines pumping dirty liquids into the world.

All the time big buses get angry .Nut shaped machines deny service .Train hoots do not pierce silence .Everything is angry on some days.

Sudden spring

There is this hopelessly lost thought In the shimmer of a half-thought poetry ,scraps of unfinished poems, their loose ends uneasily sticking out in the corners of the mind.

You wait for words to come, shapes uncertain ,with their exoticism unpredicted and straying in strange territories, with a near hope of transmutation into a gold of spring ,Rilke’s sudden spring and shadow.


I carry from sleep this very room defined by a clipped table light, an indistinct moth ,a chair plastic in its back and sitting whitely.

I like to be defined by tree back to a sun and sitting wisely on drops of words in light. The chair likes to be defined by a warm bum and an aching back of history, from shadows of night after night sleeping, stomach silent from poems emerging to fingers on letters.

Table light is defined by the room of shadow but would like to be defined by a pair of eyes and the soft touch of a body where it curves on the wall ,with a moth walking in shadow.

The moth carries its room with it on the wall ,a room of light to embrace a result of death.The chair carries a room with it of warm bum bristling with the possibility of growing cold in it.