We are red crabs inside our souls,
For sea to smooth our inner edges.
We come out for breather a while
To disappear quickly back in hole.
Like a girl who dug hole yesterday
Has withdrawn her sole from hole.
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Going separate ways
You and I , go our separate ways.
You are reported to be professor,
Who looks much like my brother,
It’s what old man in the park says,
Who worries you are not coming
To the officers’ club , these days.
I do not know whether you exist
Or if you have ever existed at all ,
Anywhere by the sea or in a city
Or are a mere figment of thought
An episode from man’s dementia
Or a fake body missing from club.
If you are not unreal and brother,
As we have come here separately
We’ll go separately to our deaths,
With no mourning to bridge them.
(Inspired by the poem Separate Way by Charles Reznikoff)
Telephone wires
After Hughes, we talk and whisper,
Through telephone wires by railway
While towns whisper to each other
Inside eerie wind on a dry country
But that is a mere figure of speech.
We have no moor in bleak country.
And it is only in trains we observe
Telephone wires run up and down.
They speak of bones nevertheless
Emptied in far towns and villages
To make room for the new bones
And the wind blows easily in trees.
(after Ted Hughes poem “Telegraph Wires”)
Mist on the eyes
My eyes are slit in the sky
As my lips rustle as leaves.
There shall be a duologue
In fog shall there be trust?
Will a breath of my words
Be strong enough to blow
The fog on mirrors of eyes
Under spell of purple love?
Will flowers of eyes open
In eye-slits of a darkness?
Can words blow a breath
To clear mist in your eyes?
Oxygen to oxide
In afternoons,the eagle swirls
At the level of a thought space
In a rusting space of old crows
Awaiting rusted turtle mamas.
Far off men rust losing oxygen
And dropping away ,bits by bit
From a leafy organ in the guts
Through oxygen pipe to a nose.
All creatures grow into oxides
To drop away like window bars.
The old and the recent
We may talk about the old heads
Against the recent ones in street
Those who look up at their heads
To ascertain if and how they talk .
The recent ones go into teleology
To decide if old heads may talk,
Who are their baby sitters by day
Or yawning story tellers by night.
Mother dreams
When a mango season arrives
We recall the breeze that made
My mother irrelevant to bones
A breeze irrelevant to her hair,
Or to a block of ice that hosted
Mother’s relevance on a night.
In small hours lie our dreams
About words about relevance .
When we have dreams we are
Struck by our own irrelevance.
