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


Is imagism a valid poetic device?

Poetry as it seems has no end to itself, it continues almost into eternity such that the poetic muse began with the first rain the man has witnessed and would go through till eternity. Thus the poetic muse is divine in regard to the spirit it endows the life with, whether consciously or unconsciously. Now the natural question that arises is, is the poetic muse with the imagism it stresses on has any relevance as a literary device?

Should we trust the musical notes which on number of cases go far-fetched in making the phrase sound musical? Or should we improve upon the sentence structure instead, by introducing a rhyming sequence? Still the most powerful question is, can the language of logic be reinvented to suit the case of metronome?  The blank verse is actually emptied of meaning by relating predicative logic. The emotion of man thus is undone.

On this day the saints stood away on the plank bemoaning the nagging fear, Stephen Hawking is true about the Godless universe but from where the material of our cognition came from was big bang. But from where the matter pops up so far nobody knows. may be the God is not redundant and in verse there has to be a patron saint of the poets.

If only imagism could portray the necessity of Godly experience, it might still be a useful literary device.

Being a Don for good

I am going to retire in a day or so from being your lover

while I bid time in hell’s inn is no mean joke

that to stay on and on forever is a tale of charismatic bluffer

I must be afraid that love is a second hand toy for a moony bloke

who would rapture at the first delight

having found a gem in the sands of pastime

And close the call with a shrug of being a penny-thug.

And you want him as your trusty folk

In the dark

In the dark the solid colour is blackness ripped off its roots

and a filigree of the enchanted love done upon the sight

as if whatever I see is of black gold hidden behind the veils of

the eyes, there is a gothic thought that the darkness devours

everything even love and she was sacred of the light and the darkness too

then how would we measure the love upon the fright loaded for seven seas

which upon arriving upon the docks fell under the shroud of darkness

and the enchanted song of love and hate rocking the ship gently.



Much hullabaloo

How could the day be done bidding adieu to the sunshine and welcoming at dusk the heart of the night?

I am amazed with the writing on the walls of the mental asylums

I am alone in bewilderment grasping the shade of the lights on the far wall

Alone in the making is the hullabaloo over the silken speech of the greatest men of our times

The roaring shift to the red planet, MARS where the destiny unfolds like a shape of shadow forming on the dense forests on the earth

And there is no take in to the colours of the queen that sends the parliament on the tip-toe to Paradise.

Much hullabaloo over the Bollywood actors out to prove the fate has other trappings than the character

I give in to the charm of your walk- much hullabaloo over nothing is the task of our poets.


Despaired I was when I looked into the distance

To measure your would be stepping against the radiant noon

But you would not come and be on the road to meet me

I despaired like a bird fledgeling on the maiden flight

Yet I know what lies beyond the deserted abode,

a fair amount of love and thy heart in peace with calamitous joy

Weep not I would for the day is long and you might turn up

another second or another second and I wait till all the seconds are gone

And despaired I stand alone as if a clown of utmost being is

made to do the circus of time- I despaired to see you reappear

but you would not come, neither your shadow to seize me

and my time on this silly Sunday afternoon stands still

when the world is at peace with itself and in perpetual rest

There is the past

There is past forgetful of present and future

There is present forgetful of past and future

There is future forgetful of past and present


There is tormentation in the flame of mortality

There is a flux of the moment but we don’t stay there

We walk without any future on the stairs of time


The falling moments keep on falling

There is no one moment where we can lie in forever

The lady luck seldom smiles


There is no one second of longer duration

There was the time, to begin with

There is the past, to end with