Murari Sinha Poet Prose Poetry

Pouch Poetry 14 - 17

14.
after the dry leaves of the winter 
fall in innumerable drops 
the spring comes 

the cover-face of spring means 
a note-book of the rain-tree 
letting float in the sun-water 

and mr harry says that
this question of change
is a major pull 

because all the unreal talks 
you are delivering one by one 

to keep pace with it 
the ambulance comes at 10am 
with a stale dead-body 

in it’s shirt 
is written the spelling of myself
 
i then sat on the grey volume 
of the college-campus

in the front 
a beggar from the war of waterloo 
is passing by 

over the dust of myself
with a faster pace 
blowing is the thoughts of 

ataraxia  
in the air… and air… and air…
    

15.

if your wishes colour silver 
then do return back to the x-mass dancing 
of the autumn
 
sound of whose far-off hoof-steps 
digging so much soil of 
story-weeds 

i went into the nail-polish 
with the proof of tea-cup 
in my hand 

there in the midst of lot of snow-flakes 
and in the bed soft with the light of the candle
is now that honey-name more tarnished
 
now the atomic-howling 
does not follow the rules of nature 

so the rain-tree that seeks a-field-more-sky 
with the hope to become king after the sun-rise 

so that king is now waiting
in the grocer’s shop 
at a stretch  for an hour

16.
does her well-wisher esse then thinks
to escape from the love-making whirl-wind 

on the dry branches of the axis power 
the new generation of the birds 

rather stop a while there silently and listen 
which song is hidden in the bronze-buddha 

or in the school of the terracotta-horse 
 
i’m now opening the coating 
of the night-enamel to read this home 

and behind the coo of dove
is smiling 

the god of the penalty-kick

17.
sitting on an orange-coloured balcony 
in an outsider lane 
the green is writing poems
  
better than the face-powder 

from this side all long the famine 
i’m the priest of the
agro-based civilisation 

still-then i think 
why so much light of partiality
is on the body of the chrysanthemum

within the monsoon 
in collusion with the  hair-band 
now thousands of birds are born   

they can hear my 
dry straws and twigs 

whose hearing is the police 
in so depth of the forest 

don’t move the 
dreadful resorts 

one such photograph of the girls 
who wakes up in the midnight 

speechless…
unmindful …
destruction…

that is you now 

i’m then in the spore 
of the perfume-bounded body 
of match-making

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