These are poetic experiments. Man's quest for the poetic element never ceases. He is always caught in the eye of awe. He does not make the rules now. The rules change depending on the emotion that time and space feed him. He must see everything with his wide eyes gaping. The beginning of poetry too, like philosophy is wonder. Look and see. Do not stop wondering You are the poet. And everything is poetry. Wonder. Wander.
got my shot today of astra zeneka
and i fell nothing at all.
before that, i got fever but i took
biogesic, and so my temperature dropped
down and hence the doctor asked me
no other questions
i am qualified, so i got the vaccine
and then what now? do i get more life?
shall i not write anymore about the poetry
of depression? shall i not talk to my dog
anymore? or feel the barks of trees? or
see the bamboo swaying? or hear the chirps
of birds abandoning their nests once and for all?
she is so tiny
like a turtle safe in her
house
he is so tiny too
a firefly flying low.
mama lydia
is in the midst of
her personal turmoil
i know how to
make her cope up with it.
if she says do not
mind her, just do the opposite
exactly, yes exactly,
put the egg sunny side up
she always takes it
with all grace.
i have long warned you
about this, when love begins
to walk away from us,
when i have nothing to say
and nothing to listen either.
now it happens, i am with you
but not yours anymore.
not a thing, not a spirit, not
a flower, not a bee, nothing.
i do not wish that you become mine,
and i will never be yours anymore.
never, never, never, and that
is final. I will not leave, but
i am no longer here for you.
i am here, but not here anymore.
something that you keep
and decide to hide and yet
it is something that keeps
on struggling to be seen and
be revealed even without your
knowing and you keep on doing
this from day one till day's end.
something rules and keeps them
all disciplined and sane.
all three in one, like sweet coffee.
no, not me, not tea, no spree.
I HAVE written so many.
When i go back, i will be lost
in the labyrinths of my own words.
my paths, and my own losses.
I have written much, yet
I am here, i have not written any.
i lay my hand, open,facing the ceiling
THE fingers are blind.
I CANNOT be watching you
all the time, not at any time, anymore.
I let all things happen.
I am tired and old and i shall focus
Only in my own salvation.
Go then, go then, find yourself,
You can always find it even without me.
Sail and paddle your own boat.
I will be sitting here watching my own thoughts.
This is my new garden now. Unseen by you.
I have my own storms inside but there will
Be peace and bliss outside of myself.
above me the clouds, below me, mud,
In between all this, Air.
