Continuing its babble of yesterday’s,
Sea’s narrative goes on where it left
Yesterday and world went on usual.
All narratives are fused into thread.
The waves fuse all of them together
As single indistinguishable prattle,
A meaningless gibberish emerging
From our non sequitur existences.
The Nausea is not inside me: I feel it out there in the wall, in the suspenders, everywhere around me. It makes itself one with the café, I am the one who is within it.
– Nausea, by Jean Paul Sartre trans. Lloyd Alexander
Nausea exists in existence,
And not in a belly at storm.
Nausea exists out of body,
A sea raging in yonder sky.
Nausea is body outside sea,
A turtle for a dawn’s crows.
Sea pukes a turtle out in disgust.
Crows have use for dead turtles.
Both dead turtles and live crows
Find no use for the dead flowers
And stuffed likenesses of gods
We worshiped the previous day.
Feisty rag picker has uses for all,
In his canvas bag ,big with stuff.
Now living near sea ,we realize
We have not marked our earth
Like lions piss in a jungle to do.
We are lions of heart , as brave.
Our bodies piss too many times
To be able to smell-mark earth.
As smell-marks evaporate soon,
We end up in vast wild wastes.
To leave a little spring in Feb.
Get rid of every body’s death.
The sea says the same thing.
It says a sea turtle to get off
With death skewered in life
In February, on a next wave.
Get off my chest ,you death
Says a sea ,wave after wave.
Get off my chest , you Poet
Says death, tooth and claw.
(On reading Margaret Atwood’s poem February
The sea is out there , lonely.
I have my fever ,by the sea.
I only imagine fellow rowers
In a laughter of bawdy yarns.
I hear the sea’s fever in head
As its moon is up and about.
Sea goes in fever and foam,
Pukes litter of dead flowers.
As three boys hop in its sky,
With three torsos in mid-air,
I stand here by a lonely sea
And swear by the lovely sea.
I run my fever by lonely sea,
Behind a sad-assed balcony .
(On reading John Mansfield’s poem “Sea Fever”)
Here lies French general ,his dog,
His loved horse, in common dust,
An earth of nobody’s sun at dusk.
Raymond was our loved Monsieur
Moosa Ram and Rahim in obelisk.
A bird dropped tree lives in its top.
(On visit to the tomb of Monsieur Raymond .He was a much loved French general in Hyderabad’s erstwhile ruler Nizam’s army, who lived two hundred years ago)