The Curtain

The way the curtain is drawn

upon the window,

like on fire is the heart

And smiled she with hoary age

Upon drawing the curtain,

her eyes seek me

and then the glimpse is gone



The love portrait

Her wounds were hidden behind the creases of the shirt,

as if silky arms had got no marks of inconsideration,

when she turned aside the creases of the shirt,

and showed the roses and tulips of grief,

those were the adorations of love portrait,

which she etched upon her skin like words are etched on book,

that name of yours my beloved!

Dreary rituals

The catcall was impressive,

The minnows threw out their fists as if dead corpse is seen in naked light

The huge show was a fluster, everybody knew the host, nobody knew the time

Or the space they were visiting was from my previous birth

On Sunday the catcall finished, my birthday in this birth

So called the deeds if the men when the showroom opened

A dressed gentleman put the garlanding as if student of life by heart

A single dove perched on the hands of Buddha, meditating yet thinking

Love is on the way, so many centuries hence the buddhas’ day

This day came frying open to the public in distress

And the maidens’ in obsessed of the sunlight

In the end the day was hopping on the clairvoyant’s shoulders

The giants appearing pygmies and the pygmies the giants

The Jupiter in its outer shell was calmed by a Pundit

Seen staring at the fire and the hoop was well advanced into the final hour.

Moon walk

I heard the faint sound

the sound of angels rushing

and see the moon transforming

into a giant hut which hangs

over the German streets

People coming across a bridge

waiting in the salon for a coffee

And I drinking the wine from

a chalice from the holy Troika

having roots on a German street

The people looking at flying shadows

projected white images on the wall

and the farmers eating potatoes

while the domestic dogs on the unleash

barking into the face of the moon

a German businessman drawing smoke

from a cigar, glares at the stairs to the moon

how far the love could go? asked the giant Solomon

The sluts emerging from the roof

and walking tip-toe to the cemetery

a few flowers strewn there

and a wine of the forgotten land

laden by the side all forgotten in the sun

My memory of you melding with snow

and appetite for love growing wild

as is the column of man who has lost

the game of cards to the ducks

the chatter of girls unfolding into

a prater of nonsense, the moon

forming the love statue for the whores

who chatter on and on like a stale German wine!

A hike near Manali

What the day that pitches darkness in farther gloom

I rest on the floor of the singlet tent, three of us huddled

over a mountain range where wine is in plenty and grass

the more greener green, we get a selfie on the foot bridge

And about the chicken we have to wait in the corners

where in one corner is a cook who lives the decent life

on the mountain top opposite to our pasture is the slope

where the snow has its descent even in the summers

we collect the liquor and move to the rivulet which in fact

flows to the destiny in the western winds where it elopes

and rests fine. We pick up the gloom on our car and move

on to the hotel bunk where there is nothing not even a crow

To crackle the wind into half and set a voice so high as if

the dead end of the thunder make a howl and fall shy

We drink the wine and roam under the starry night

lest the river of wine that flows within us will be high and dry

there’s seldom a goat that is called a spy who visits the Scotland Yard and cry

for the diamonds lost on the terrain and back to thoughts

out of our reverie of diamonds coming to an end

and that spy is a figment of memory which wine often arouse

and lay the rocks in mounds where the fowl often spies.