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
1.
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
2.
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
3.
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
4.
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
5.
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
6.
in course of burning
i look around
the chilly-plant in the tob
planted in my won-hand
producing green-chillies
oh-** 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
7
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
8.
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
9.
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
go
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 love-making 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
