Got up at 1AM and sleep eludes and poems come.A nimbus poem, a cat lookalike poem, a feral nothing.

Hearts come beating.They wait for highway bypass.The roads through the towns are congested and heavy with people.

Another day, another color.

Poems aplenty

A poem a day ,keeps the apple away .Now we have a poem about a blind dancer, clawing our common space for beauty .We have one for the bypass road, when the city road is clouded with lipids.

You want to document ageing of three women over twenty years? What do you see as the difference in their faces in precisely same positions? More sorrow in the eyes, says the observer.But the sorrow is more in the observers eye.


I had wound up the day .Slipped onto sleep and woke up at 3 for another poem a day .Thus would be 2120- something .

Hibiscus was truly growing.That was then.

In December, this day,it is 2187.Seems I am outpacing Emily the posthumous poet, the envelope poet.

Minding the gaps

Please mind your gaps, says the poet-gardener of gaps. Poems are gaps between words, their long stretching spaces adding further gaps. The gaps are my emptiness between words like the milk between the stars on a dark night.

 O chestnut tree, are you the leaf, blossom or the bole? Asks poet of a chestnut in a jam jar, planted on the very day of his birth. The chestnut dances in the wind and the poet does not know dance from the dancer.(Yeats)

 The Mayor cannot transform his bad wheat. A bad wheat makes a bad bread .

 The Mayor of Casterbridge(Thomas Hardy) is  my re-read. I am trying to mind the gaps.

White shroud

In the barber’s shop the music is painful on the ears and I sit here as mute audience. I wait for the white shroud.

 I can only recall a  morning’s darkness. The darkness of a Korean poet. A Korean blanket , warm  on body and dark on the eyes.

When I heard about the Korean blanket
A blanket of darkness in the  soft mink,
I wanted to see inside of a Korean dark.

The same darkness is on our windows,
In embroidered needle-pricks of light
And  light had a heart hid in darkness.

A shroud will now cover my darkness. Tufts of my silver hair shall fall around me like autumn leaves. There are  no birds on the bare branches.

 The  music  must go on in the  white wall.


From the green bench I recall the word that stuck out  this morning – ephemeral. Is  the water formed in the snow hills ephemeral or the water in the water tanker here over which women fight their loud throats?

 All ephemeral things reach their seas ,from the hills and the tankers  and the women’s voices. Their bodies thirst for water from the hills and the water tankers, their ephemeral voices tearing the quiet of a morning walk.

Sour fruit and bitter flowers

Now on the other green bench, I have the fallen pipal leaves at my feet . All night they would have fallen to the wind.

There is spring in waiting . A festival is on of the bitter sweet neem leaves and the new tartaric fruit , that was often the subject of our childhood  stone attack. The fruit is a direct  outcome of tiny blouse flowers that tasted sour and sweet. The tangy fruit on  tongue twisted a child’s face.