The Poems Hunter who left long back
has yet not been returned.
May be straying in front of
the closed street shops, temples, steps of ponds,
bars, mujara dancing halls…
To fall on a big game, little ones ignored
or the hunted one pierced out cleverly while retuning,
or the prey which was at the gun point long back
hiding slowly behind the bushes, has stuck on the eyes.
‘’No No’’ the revelation eclipses
nothing is greater than today’s
horn of hare shot down.
while searching in darkness
which lost in light
the marrow ****** bone
thrown out by somebody hindered him
Or hesitant to come home empty handed,
putting back the loaded gun,
he may be roaming around at
riverside, bus stop, ladies hostels,
psychiatric wards……..
Having been not seen back home
even after the ghastly night fed up of
given birth to fumes of lava clotted darkness,
Keeping the gruel in that
smallpox clad aluminium bowl,
on the tiny corner
where poetry and light would never creep in,
spreading the raw jute sack,
unable to shut the mind and eyes
while closing the doors… slowly couched.
Yet, out to search the poet in the woods and
was fallen prey to the tiger,
that is what to the seekers from time immemorial.
now, time has given punishment
to the poet
To lie on the furnaced fever,
on the burning sack of the friend
scribbling elegy on the death of the friend.
====