Email Poem

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Personal Note:
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Poem
hereunder is served some poetry pouches full of love, 
dear reader, stir them as you like, 
if you wish you may crack them to pour into mouth, 
you may smear them on your body 
or you may sprinkle them on the ground 
and then chant the name of god 
with love and enjoyment

1.
the simplicity that rolls down 
from the body of the sweet-meat 
made by my mother 

let it bring light 
to our radish-red love-story 

to hear or to notice 
love 
does not need 
putting an ear on the wall 
of the wall-street journal 

the bottle could be filled 
from the voice 

when you go to fill the bottle 
you would see that everywhere 
the arrangement of picnic is ready 

when i want to take part in that feast 
my neighbours would drive me towards 
the home  

although i’ve spent all my life 
running behind the love 

2.
who’s won the muddy-battle
was yesterday’s politics

my addiction is actually to cater 
the pouch of love
to develop all vitamins
and all bathrooms

people say you don’t love
the claps of the rats

yet i’ll come down 
from the branch of a guava-tree 
as a wave-of-shopping-mall
to the lake of your love 

now i’ll jump out 
from this computer screen 
to register a kiss 
on your lips

don't miss to applaud 
by clapping the hands


3.
the heart is half-sunk
in the window 

to some extent 
in the lipstick too 

on the dinner-plate 
there is the feelings of the lord 

that means 
i’ve to be burnt more 
i do agree 

i would become 
the sculpture of khajuraho 

this happenings may have been 
the right search for love 

on either-side of which  
a green is being worked out 
by the nostalgic-cycle 

whose colour-texture is very much harappa 
which has too many geometric-memories 

4. 
an undertone is speaking 
from within the solitude

now i’m in very much 
distress

or i’m in love 

i don’t know my love is what-for
may be that’s an arrangement only 

so easily are those interactions 
stitched with words 

strenuous or effortless 
in flight 
initiated 
with seclusion 

but when in the sinking of the playfulness 
i  write the games of the street-charmers 
 

the birds again and again 
pierce the archery 

thus becoming ashes 
through travelling 

in time-gaps still 
the audacity to compose poems 
on you
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