Friday, March 17, 2017


They shut me up in chores
My butterfly-mind fluttered
I felt a war in my head
Only to realize that the wide open window
is just a painting on the wall!

Saturday, January 21, 2017

This too is about pain

Coleridge, you fever bird
You sang out last night!

As I lay closing the day like a book
 groping for a bookmark named sleep,
you sang your grief.

 Why do you cry like one possessed?
It makes weird sounds against my window panes.
A moist breeze blows
I wiggle my toes,
rearrange my sheets for warmth,
my insomniac eyes long to watch your dream.
Every now and then, I tap my veins
to eavesdrop and hear the throbbing of my blood-flow
checking for a rift
through which a giant tree can grow
building a nest for your Albatross.
Your opium eyes sprout wings, beat on my breasts
 and I become a giant tree
building house for those lost dreams ,
comforting them to creep and climb my body.

Saturday, May 28, 2016

Gray Poetry

I don not want to go home

I don't want to belong

I don't need to be rooted

I don't like to own.

I wish to go there

where there's no plumbing or fixing the bulb

I need not worry about the peeling off

It's not mine.

I can let the vine tree grow and 

creep out from the crevices

I need not cement it up

The gray painted walls will not echo any familiar story

The ceiling can't tempt for death 

The mysterious cobweb below the staircase 

can stay with the bluish spider 

The pale ugly square mark on the wall

of that old painting may keep murmuring old history

I can keep making love signs with my finger

on the dust layer of the writing table

Nothing needs to be familiar

No one needs be known

I don't want to go home

I don't want to belong.

There's an uncanny freedom, a 'Mukti' 




being unsettled.

Friday, April 8, 2016

Green poetry

A few years ago I became a tree.
I suckled mother Earth
my roots growing firm and strong
I grew into branches, my hands became leaves
dancing in freedom
reaching up to the sky.
The cloud peeped into my brown eyes
And fell in love.

  Since yesterday
the soil is loosening around my roots.
The vine that clasped my waist
has fungus.
It’s spreading on to me.
The silence of the soil is bone chilling.
They said, trees have lives, but
No one could hear me when I shouted!
Those conifers or the moss on the wall
No one heard!

 Maybe, if I close my eyes and count till ten
It will all prove to be a bad dream.

Just hoping, you know…