If the dead old poets knew!

Churning and churning in layers of pain
I hear the songs of thousands slain
And jangling all my nerves with strain
Hungry vultures rush again;
Followed by that roaring flood
Smearing all this world in blood.
Hapless orphans cry in vain,
Tearing helpless hearts in twain.

Beware, beware it rises now!
With pent-up rage in both its brow,
And with restless pounding strides
Greater prey and mayhem eyes,
As it wanders through my land
Dried and patched with seedless sand.
What immortal force or mind
Will its ceaseless hatred blind?
And with softest blissful tune
Weeds of human heart will prune?

Tangled up in knots I lie
Finding neither how or why.

Mourning Raga

Put out the lights and softly pray;

For nothing that you may say,

Will neither make much sense

Nor the slightest difference.

As he that now stands apart

On that distant shore

Will no more walk with us,

Never, ever more.

Mourn him all who loved

And dwell on extinct bliss.

And those who did just hate

Must now hold their peace.

Let’s hope his kindred soul

If it does exist,

Finds the rest it could not get

And does in joy persist.

We can only do our best

To end what he did start

So that he would live through us

Both in life and art.

While Still Afloat

Floating on the weary waves
I drift along in hoary haze,
Searching for some verdant shores
Where I can my anchor drop
And in days of sunlit songs
Drown in mirth and chilled up brew
With some people smiling bright
Who know by heart the tricks of trade,
Of how to live with love and laugh.

Somewhere far a fin of shark,
I think he picked my trail of blood.

Hasty Sketches

Hasty sketches flicker past
Merge and crack and fade away.
I search and search for finite frames
But all do break and broken lie –
Mangled forms of ancient truths.

Round and round I dance about
Breathless, gasping, weary clod
That palely crawls and creeps beneath
As if to…
As if…

Then sudden comes the fitful push
That hurls beyond the gaping cliff
And all the dingy grime and sweat
Fruitless fragments all in all –
At last embrace with passionate sweep
The dread unasking brooding dark.

Report from Page 3

We scoop up all the knives and forks
And slicing up with wolfish ease
Place them as the grandest dish,
In this feast of gentle folk
Where with questions ‘how’ and ‘why’
We know how good or bad one is
And shoot with surest poison pitch
Names of all those still unhurt.
.
Today was quite a hefty meal;
A shameful case of one who had
Sold his heart for dollars’ sake.
We chopped and chew and ate with zest,
Leaving not one bone to rest.
I wash up hand and face and then
Wipe off all the trace of stain.

Yet the glass on wall does ooze
Blood and robbing all my peace
Conjures up some unseen feast
Where my bits of carcass lie.

Trembling every night in dream
I drink hard and vainly scream.

Mr. Biswas Comes Back Home

Moving straight in darkling lane
Faced with windows
Locked up all,
I search in vain
In regular pain
A kindly face to peep and look
And light up darkened roads with smile
So that I in vacant rooms
Leaving halls of guilty glass
Cook me up some fragrant dish
And dine with dreams of what could be.

I check the mail and take my bills
And drag me up the stairs which burst
Into shouts of “why so late”
And tell me what to buy from store
On my way back from the work.
Sagging into worn-out couch
I gulp it all with glass of juice
While the doors are slammed and shut.

Cringing cold in calmest bed
I fly and plunge in open sea.

A day of rarest mundane peace

Away from all the noise and fuss
Where no wounding question cuts
It floats along the gentle breeze,
Fragrant with that charming mood
When all things work as just they should –
A day of rarest mundane peace!

Which flows through heart in crystal streams
As like golden springtime dreams
That fill my heart with restful joy.

So in hope with words I try
To catch the day that’s passing by
So that I can when I may
Breathe again the peaceful day
Which in days of clouded sky
Will glow like gilded butterfly.