pouch poetry

hereunder is served some poetry pouches full of love,

dear reader, stir them as you like,

if you wish you may crack them to pour into mouth,

you may smear them on your body

or you may sprinkle them on the ground

and then chant the name of god

with love and enjoyment

the simplicity that rolls down

from the body of the sweet-meat

made by my mother

let it brings light

to our radish-red love-story

to hear or to notice

love

does not need

putting an ear on the wall

of the wall-street journal

the bottle could be filled

from the voice

when you go to fill the bottle

you would see that everywhere

the arrangement of picnic is ready

when i want to take part in that feast

my neighbours would drive me towards

the home

although i’ve spent all my life

running behind the love

who’s won the muddy-battle

was yesterday’s politics

my addiction is actually to cater

the pouch of love

to develop all vitamins

and all bathrooms

people say you don’t love

the claps of the rats

yet i’ll come down

from the branch of a guava-tree

as a wave-of-shopping-mall

to the lake of your love

now i’ll jump out

from this computer screen

to register a kiss

on your lips

don't miss to applaud

by clapping the hands

the heart is half-sunk

in the window

to some extent

in the lipstick too

on the dinner-plate

there is the feelings of the lord

that means

i’ve to be burnt more

i do agree

i would become

the sculpture of khajuraho

this happenings may have been

the right search for love

on either-side of which

a green is being worked out

by the nostalgic-cycle

whose colour-texture is very much harappa

which has too many geometric-memories

an undertone is speaking

from within the solitude

now i’m in very much

distress

or i’m in love

i don’t know my love is what-for

may be that’s an arrangement only

so easily are those interactions

stitched with words

strenuous or effortless

in flight

initiated

with seclusion

but when in the sinking of the playfulness

i write the games of the street-charmers

the birds again and again

pierce the archery

thus becoming ashes

through travelling

in time-gaps still

the audacity to compose poems

on you

is it true love

or i do take it granted

that i’m in love

or i do love to think

that i’m loving

and there is

neither any welcome address

nor any opening song

in my love

my experience with heat of fire

and with burning pain

in the flames of water

is nothing less

in course of burning

i look around

the chilly-plant in the tob

planted in my won-hand

producing green-chillies

oh-ho how sweet they are

it is no chilled-body

that has earned

my life or death

no remarkable mark

is endorsed

on the lotus-leaf

now easily some words

can be written

on you

i don’t know whether

those would be at all

some lines of a poem

someone falls in loves

someone makes love

love comes to some another

there is the far-off

whispering

at first she constructs me

then destroys rightly

i notice her

for the first time in six weeks

the love

that writes

in the footnote of the tennis-ball

a desperate struggle for existence

within our skull

there is the love

or the midnight of the orion

the little squirrel asked now

are you in your seventies

or eighties

those houses with the coating of

the sky the air the light-and-shade

provide me with the presentation of

a wig and

a set of artificial teeth

the love

that touches the hand

in drizzling

the love

that gets lost in the brandishing

grasses

would they want to inform

that the flowers don’t have any skyscraper

in the layers of the flesh and blood

of the detergents

as if a whole human civilisation has been suffering

from suppressed pain

within it with the dry spell of

anger and cough

the time

had there been no feeding from the love

does the human civilisation stagger

do you think those words

or it’s myself

whatever may you say now

i’ll travel within a great death

to die

rather after my demise i may tell

i’ve informed everyone …look

beneath the large evergreen flower tree

the game of light and shadow continues

beside those simple households

besides a high-head mobile-tower

what else would you like to be

is it a bath in the ganga-river is it a leaf

of the water-lily or it’s a king-cobra

tell me

i would now make love

with that idea from you

10.

the apparent golden *** that i thought

to be the underneath of a kadam-tree

in the dim light i can notice that

the stars in the sky are disappearing

this session of poetry

is coming to an end

now where would i

to that little home

the home

a tiny word of 4 letters

within that home

the children are giggling

playing … and making funs

when i entered

with a tri-cycle in hand

for them

i have been perplexed

many old persons are waiting there

to shake hands with me

10.

almost most of my desires

are very much hurt

to show it publicly

i wrap bandages

around all over my body

i keep on the stage-drama

in our programme of reading poetry

tea is served twice

current has gone off for three times

for four times the mobiles ring

to pick up love

some people think about returning back

from today’s dais to the ancient stage

of performing folk-drama

then they are also sympathetic

to my sufferings

12.

everyday

on my way to return home from the school

when my mom took hold of my hands

i could see in my body

the dancing of an unforgettable

aura

even now that mystical halo is walking

on the leaves of the trees

to fulfil my mornings

that wayfaring along the road

is ringing far and far-off

thus taking bath in every day’s

dust smoke hue and cry

many such love

gradually gets aged

is it true

in the long run

i too

would be the ingredient

of a fairy-tale

just because i love

that paddy field

some time later

she will also become

human

13.

then she will make all of us

join her walking

those inmost feeling

those memories meditations

the loneliness and solitude…

sans the touch of the imagination of

a crater…

a creator…

this blunder…

this socially outcast white …

this type of uneven…

and irrelevance…

sume words

when peep in the mind

i surprise to see that

it’s ten to 2 at night

then in the balcony

my father is crying

he always notices some grave-yard men

in front of him

and sheds tears

14.

after the dry leaves of the winter

fall in innumerable drops

the spring comes

the cover-face of spring means

a note-book of the rain-tree

letting float in the sun-water

and mr harry says that

this question of change

is a major pull

because all the unreal talks

you are delivering one by one

to keep pace with it

the ambulance comes at 10am

with a stale dead-body

in it’s shirt

is written the spelling of myself

i then sat on the grey volume

of the college-campus

in the front

a beggar from the war of waterloo

is passing by

over the dust of myself

with a faster pace

blowing is the thoughts of

ataraxia

in the air… and air… and air…

15.

if your wishes colour silver

then do return back to the x-mass dancing

of the autumn

sound of whose far-off hoof-steps

digging so much soil of

story-weeds

i went into the nail-polish

with the proof of tea-cup

in my hand

there in the midst of lot of snow-flakes

and in the bed soft with the light of the candle

is now that honey-name more tarnished

now the atomic-howling

does not follow the rules of nature

so the rain-tree that seeks a-field-more-sky

with the hope to become king after the sun-rise

so that king is now waiting

in the grocer’s shop

at a stretch for an hour

16.

does her well-wisher esse then thinks

to escape from the ********** whirl-wind

on the dry branches of the axis power

the new generation of the birds

rather stop a while there silently and listen

which song is hidden in the bronze-buddha

or in the school of the terracotta-horse

i’m now opening the coating

of the night-enamel to read this home

and behind the coo of dove

is smiling

the god of the penalty-kick

17.

sitting on an orange-coloured balcony

in an outsider lane

the green is writing poems

better than the face-powder

from this side all long the famine

i’m the priest of the

agro-based civilisation

still-then i think

why so much light of partiality

is on the body of the chrysanthemum

within the monsoon

in collusion with the hair-band

now thousands of birds are born

they can hear my

dry straws and twigs

whose hearing is the police

in so depth of the forest

don’t move the

dreadful resorts

one such photograph of the girls

who wakes up in the midnight

speechless…

unmindful …

destruction…

that is you now

i’m then in the spore

of the perfume-bounded body

of match-making

18.

who has lied in the box

made up of the temperature

of god

all on a sudden

there is a hue and cry

in the abdomen of the time

wearing a ***** pajama

actually that has been filtered up

from the voices of rock-songs

the roaming

of a fatigued traveller …

the lies

within their wishes

write my existence

and then run

to buy vegetables

from the station-market

so many lay-offs

come to the body of paper-weight

to listen to all those

is not improper

walking through the traffic-jam

gradually

this home becomes solely my home

one day the golden of

human

then it is i

who is you

and walking through the

monsoon

on either side of the field

it is all autumn

19.

when borrowing the religion of

the night-queen

i fall in love

then is it real

that our mangos and jack-fruits

can make the perfumed-soap

vigorously from the light of the

blood-line

i count the bells of the churches

ringing repeatedly

and piercing the image

of your prominent face

rounding through lots of old

the love becomes exhausted

and the love comes back

in the form of college-classes

there are you myself

and so many notes

of the body

Request permission to use this poem