Die a simple poet

If you die , be simple poet.
Let the wild geese over-fly.

Now there is clear blue air
Whosoever you and I are.

These geese will fly home
And another night begins

And  sea will send waves
Over the wild geese’ cries

With turtles ever hopeful,
To lay their eggs on shore

And deaths come in waves
And go away into the past.

(Poet Mary Oliver dies at the age of 83)


January 9

January ninth was a beginning
That recurs till all my years die.

And each of my years, I will die
And each time I die is doorway

And each time I lie is doorway
And it is tubes and a loss of air

In spite of everything, because
A tube sticks out from a belly.

(On the birthday of my son who passed a year ago)

Coal poem

I have read a poem by coal,
That smelt my own memory

Of earthen stoves smoking,
As a lazy city opens its eyes.

The poem is spoke by coal,
From black coal to diamond,

A diamond for ever in fever
Or black coal to white fame,

Depending on who pays what
And how much per molecule.

A coal poem has a black skin
But is a diamond at sunshine,

Especially, if sun’s rays crash
On window glass in diamond.

(After reading a poem COAL by Audre Lorde)

Eye hole

His face is marble with a cold eye,
Glaciated by the old age waterfall.

Wife’s eyes too are turned glacial,
By a winter’s fog, biting old body.

It is foggy at night in uncle’s eyes.
Wife eye has spread fog to world

From her cornea with  dark hole,
We have to find a dead eye to fill.

Come after six months for review.
He  says we will, if eyes are alive.

Slow dreams

They talk in slow dreams on river
As the boatman shouts at evening

And shadows play in the banyan.
They forget the banyan is  dream

And men shuffle about in dream
And boats bloat on river’s dream.

They forget theirs is asexual god
Dreaming as stone in a sanctum.

They forget they are but fragment
From a mother whose wholeness

Was lost to a fragmented memory
And only a cold river remembers.


She was chit of a girl, in pigtails,
With school bag on shirt’s back,

Her girl eyes underlined in black.
Her bag had poems to memorize

To recite in class between chairs,
Small hands tucked on her chest.

From chit she grew up to a book.
She no more spoke others’ verse.

She had many poems in her skull.
Muse tousled her hair with wind.

(Tribute to poet Meena Alaxander (1951-2018) , who passed a few days ago)