In the garment factory
bloom the
delicate young women.
I live in a rented house.
When the bear-dance
comes to an end,
drawing
zeros
again and again,
I must return
from the school
of the bees.
Rivers
brush their teeth
with neem twigs
deep within
their waters,
there is
a secret
world:
horses and fireflies,
and a rain-wet
shiuli tree,
a vast
fragment
of stone,
all alone,
beneath
the vastness of space.
The jellyfish boats
are returning home.
Beyond the rooftop
of the three-storeyed house,
a pine tree
stands,
in its own mood,
the monsoon clouds.
Having dived
deep into
the depths
of my own being,
near the burnt-out
stub of a cigarette,
I find myself
wondering:
Should I
write anew
Goanna and Twilight?
I’m not speaking someone’s words
I don’t do somebody’s actions
Neither the Commons, nor the Lords
Represent my interactions
Journalists can rend the air
Formulating rather bluntly
What I am, but I’m not there
I don’t live in paper country
In my country there are trees
Gardens and some benches too
Parks and lawns, and birds and bees
People who say “I love you”
Music, arts, two-storeyed mansions
Ponds and rivers, cloudy skies
Things that wouldn’t get a mention
For the lazy reader's eyes
I’ve no use in politicians
That’s an awful part, isn’t it?
And moreover, the ficticious
Thing like ”nation” I don’t need
On the side of unessentials
I live carelessly free
Telling you no confidentials
What’s my country, they can’t see.
He was roaming the streets of the New York borough,
To hard him every passer-by was a foe.
Boredom and apathy followed him everywhere,
Why attend his cousin's wedding when he had to pay the fare?
He traipsed wearily down Fifth Avenue, Not giving a glance at dresses new.
Broadway Avenue was not payed much heed to,
Glances spared only a few.
He looked up at the 103 storeyed Empire State Building,
Didn't even stop at Bloomingdales for a shopping fling.
Scorn on his face he passed Central Park,
Didn't cease walking to take a picture with cardboard Peeta Mellark.
The nonchalant and incurious was leaving Manhattan soon,
But he wouldn't even be happy in his own little room...
all the time that had been
has been spoken out
the plunging into life-pond
gets condensed within the paperback
then why the kovalam beach does shatter
when it finds the trace of new minerals
is it true then comes to her mind
the memory of the fugitive rain-girl
much sunshine comes for making crowd
on the grasses
in the moonlight of the apple
wakes up the magic
that is attached with the shirt of the
harbour
the white multi-storeyed
also remains sleepless
even-then…
even-today…
july means the amorous bickering
of the fish-girls for pleasure
inside a running minibus
here is the dialects of the fabrics
Rusticated granite Great staircase
Mistress of a vast wintry country estate
Drew in a breath brilliant jewelry poodles
Soft wooly sun warmth wash over her body
Mahogany gold mouldings red flocked walls
One sausage two small potatoes green peas
Borche pears in brandy dollop of kahlua cream
Tall windows green upon green of countryside
Double storeyed space balustraded gallery level
Full length portrait carved peir glasses fireplace
Eat the flesh and throw the stem into the fire
Smell his aroma eminating from her body
Radiating like a slow tide on a flat beach
Pronounced flush rush of heat building
Hand on her knee Waggling a finger
Smartly pared the fruit humming
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