in the memory of Ezra Pound

The ghost would calm me down for he is a preserver of true form

of the form vanished with the eloping night that I hoped to perform

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The inconsolable

The basic thought that sways the mind too is boggling with wine on dark night

when the moon is half awake and half in stride of phantoms riding the night

there sits the mount of Venus as proud as the heydays of a poet in adoration

and as waver as the waters riding the current on the river about to sink into ocean

there to put out a paper boat to ride on to the choppy waters is a mere thought

of a man mad about wine after having been ditched by a woman who loves wine,

and is inconsolable.

the soft ideologue

Appearing as a thrush-ling to the crowd of beggars, begging for better life than ours

to the pantomime by an experienced artist, the onlookers were puzzled if he were literary

he was not but a trousers stitched to the lump we call shoulders, belly protruding and lost

under its own weight, nonetheless he performs for consolation of theater movement

She was watching him from under of her cape, confused and lost in the movement

which meant nothing more than an ideologue that empties to the room of dead corpses

it talked nonetheless to the dead people, why are you wasting your life for in the winter?

When there is heaven to make after the death of body, the soul takes over to a new dimension

He was busy with his somersaulting, a replica from the past while the crowd cheered in vain

Till a thrush-ling cooed from the palm groove in the desert of Arabia where hardly anyone talked

let alone sang in the fashion of a migratory bird which from Serbia due to climate change

found her way into the desert as a change in fortune, then there are hardly any ambush in Serbia too

Despite the stars glared on to the earth, a climate change had offended the light and the starlight too

While the arts movement strayed off like a communist regime on to the other chores of capital thought

He was adamant the show must go on while she was adamant to hear the show to end and

it was time to go home but the migratory bird strayed though found the desert an enchanted place.

The man in the railway carriage

The man in the railway carriage sits idle

as if on the grasslands riding a horse saddle

the images of the fiery lands whizz past in the window

as he looks to draw out of the summer limbo

he attests to the fact the other passengers heed

to all the cravings of mind as a lunch he would need

from the pantry car to silence the stomach upheaval

and relax with the newspaper of the day’s revival

He is silent about the duo next to him playing rummy

while he longs to wager a bit for the yummy

He is riding the train to end up on the north-west frontier

he is coming to home to spend more of his time sunnier

he is bored to death sitting next to girl a pretty

who barely winks away from her kitty


The Bewitched

The souls of men are more pious than the solemn promise of love to lovers’ communion tied

Come swarthy though thy soul is as white as the snow fallen prey on the HImalayas top

None denied in the bewitching by the cupid’s bow leashed on the summer’s day’s fright

as the sun laboriously tip-toed through the skies to shelter the passioned thougt of her lied

in the frozen climates but the Jupiter does seek thousands climes rasied to rule tonight

while I in the frozen midnight can’t even speak a word for with you I am bewitched with pride

Tell those tales of love requited and love denied to the birds in the sky and be consoled

for we are only men of bones that we cannot fly like a phoneix which though would take for ride

The bewtiched I lie on the ground with a stare of moon in my eyes and roll over another dream

of far away empassioned damsel waiting for mw to arrive and take the jinx out of the night

so we could fly together over the rocky boulders along the seashore and see for ourselves

the pricy little gems we call shells which bewitched though we happen to make a bead and soar

again to the chilly climes having cooled in the aftermath of global warming now burned bright

and for the sake of love’s art the bewitched I woke up from the starry dream moon is full tide

the souls of seafaring men I see pitched on with the flag of skull and bones with which they ride

THE TREES AT THE HORIZON

The horses graze at the horizon

As I summon up the courage to not be smitten

by the law and the womenfolk

grazing in the garden of life

no soul is bereft that is darn devotional

at the horizon the trees spring an oasis

that my eyes feast in viewing a galore

A horseman passes by but no one cares

whether the sun shines or elopes

having taken for granted the metamorphoses of the universe

the trees seem motionless from distance

and believe me they actually move

as the die-hard spirit along with the earth and in her bosom

Little rainy impressions

The rain had rundown like sunshine on the Picasso

hardly leaving a memory of the foreshore in dusk

Then she sang a song of piety as a passionless star

could glimpse from within the yellow light in the ember

which turned white as white as her scarf that billowed

loose in the falling rain droplets and i measuring her thighs

resigned to reading a snoop from Life magazine then she turned away

through the rain as if she would bid adieu but she didn’t but whispered through the rain

nothing not even an impression of anyone but the dusk under the lamppost

the rain fell for the last time I hope as if Picasso has retired to the noon