There is sadness when the poem does not appear
on print. The sadness outgrows the present
and escapes drudgery.

There is sadness when silences of evenings
weigh heavily on times that are hurt.
Hurt because of what is happening.
What? When a child sees the dead of a road
is swallowed by breathing water.

There is sadness when a country re writes history
indefatigibly, unerroneously. A country which shares
burden of colonial discontent.

There is sadness when a friend's jealous looks at mine
when the poem is finally published.

The poem is actually published.
Sadness persists in aftermath.

The warmth of summer in this town lingers
like the smell of damp places or dank houses
but I have grown to love this syndrome.
What do you do when you don't love
do you hate?
The smell of summer seasons beats the rain
which can appear any time. But the clouds disappear
with alacrity, and old wounds fester.

Nearby the mighty river bears fangs- sometimes
otherwise it can be as lukewarm as water, but it has
an ancient past, and when the monsoons strike terror
it plants a mysterious death wish.The people in the villages
know it, and the river island also feels its breath, cover for love.

The days of childhood are over, but this moment
reminiscences like these will talk. Will speak.

And I will weave once again dreams.

This is being on a verge
not a void
void is not verge
but sitting on a hedge
or on a languishing hill
I tether, get gooseberries.

All outside is loneliness.

Seen it somewhere
a coiled snake
fanning for thirst
and respite
behind the fluttering
wind had stories to tell
in a cyclonic storm

If timing were as sweet,
as love is irrational*

It was the strongest, most painful thing I'd ever written.
So I crumpled it up in a ball and asked God to get it to
you for me

Because Lord knows
Lord, no,
I don't have that kind of strength

You collected me
A bright star you saw
Put me in a glass jar and kept me close
Kept me far
Far away for no one to see
But my light it dwindled and sputtered
Only for a moment!
You put me on the shelf, far from you
Far from everyone else

There were others
Burnt out and dim
You're own faded Galaxy on a shelf

The process of creation
Instant in a flash of light through the spoken Word
Or fertilized in the womb
Or sprouting underground
Maybe born of the heavens long ago
Before earth and sun
Born of the stars, exploding into the universe
Or within the volcano
Deep inside the earths core
Born of the waters, the streams and waterfalls
The rich colors of the untouched forest
Initiated in the sounds of night, birdcalls and the occasional howl in moonlight
Sons and daughters of thousand year old oak trees, acorns falling, scattering
Conceived in the deepest and darkest oceans, unaware and uncaring about the mythical surface world
Carried upon by the wind accross the world, currents and pathways charted by the birds and the monarchs
Dandelion child