Sunday, April 16, 2017

Boiled moments..

A tree grows lonely in a room,
penetrating its floor.
The roots spread aiding the walls. Eyes start to cramp on the branches.
Forest recalls the raw nerves Rivers take a stroll through rusted hardy paths
Boiled moments etiolate in rustling of leaves...

Wednesday, March 22, 2017

The Wisdom...

Forest neither does descend nor does spread
but arises as knowledge.

Sea neither does detrain nor does advance.
But I myself am the sea…

If the winged lightning loves the sand,
it neither does approach nor does return.
But the Sun grows 'We' the roots…

And later,
Fingers transform to giant trees,
Animals wake up on the palms,
Streams surge from belly to eyes,
A landslide journeys from fingernails to the moonlight..

In the nights filled with cricket;s moan,
the branches begin to whisper..

Tiny mountains sweat their wings,
Lakes return the babies…
Wildfire begs for the last breath.

Rain, roots itself in rainbows, to flood..
Thus flowers become birds,
birds to stars,
and stars recur to love and flowers…
Epigraphs grow into ramparts,

A being with two hands and legs,
drinks to shrivel the path..

A symphony of footsteps,
commence to weave thongs..

On the groans of the forehead,
a street germinates…
Doors wear garments of clops,
Thumps fructify as trees, in memories..
Hands deserted by animals,
fall ease unto me..
Closed eyes decipher flood in stones..

Thus, women sprout again as leaves,
Babies retreat to the rains….

Forest, from ages, is wisdom..
Just like the sea...

Rubbish almighty..

stepping to the blank idol ,
invisible only to you 

but not away

imaginations are organised 
vision of emotions, 
a narrow point never end up. 

these are illusions like rubbish almighty.

moves on thorn rain on me,
these growing realization 

never dies with distraction of death .

tranquility born when breath stops,

creation the word is ego.
you can only construct.
an organisations of available objects ...

You, the river...

You, the river,
is a drop,
that I am born myself..

As sea draw closer the river,
to itself with pendulums,
the lakes of life shrivel...

On the third day of love,
as you the seed, 
conquered the unresurrected sand,
I draw the song of colours
on the non snowy polar axis..

On the dawn of cascading lightning,
as I drown and ascend with the urn of fear,
you light a sun with your soul..

Though I retreated to the galaxies,
and you embarked huge branches,
though wildfires and hurricanes advanced to avenues,
why does our entwined feet expand?

Tuesday, March 21, 2017

What daughter might be doing..

When shadow commences to die in the body,
When termites reveal creation,
When symbols scuffle with rain,
When the sea quaffed by father swallows the daughter,
When a sweat, in the name of spring, divide the doors of lifespan,
When snail manifest as a leaf of wisdom,
That is when each forest is baptized....

Yashodhara, Oormila, Magdaline, Amina, Kasturba,
 Anna, Alice, Sabeena, Mithra..that and this she...
Its not in search of shadow that sun decline to the forest depth.
Its not with awareness that birth delivers death.
Still it was on a starry day, that the baby was disserved from my palm.

As the leaves spoke to the root,
As the wind grew eagerly to the clouds,
I too was changing to a tribal mother...

When springs lactate on my breast, 
thousand tribal gods cohere to my chest...
thousand seeds, thousand songs, 
thousand coloured birds, thousand dancers, thousand lakes...

My children weave monsoon, valleys, hurricanes and sky with the earth...
They find love among stone reefs and shrubs...
They guide ants to walk in line to their self dug urbanism...

And I, filled my journey, in the tortoise shell that landed my shore and safeguard my daughter...
Even then, a senescent earthworm, under a baseless huge banyan tree, murmurs...

What would your daughter, who attained an untimely drought,
 be doing now??

Friday, March 3, 2017

Blood Downing the Pass...

Henna …

You boil in the dark
A silent pain.

Its very memory
breaking my veins,
blood rushes down the precipitous pass 

Abysmal silences,
bind the feet of Alps,
tears apart the brain of kisses.

On the ancient curtains of Grats , 
the salt-chewing priest, 
dipping in wax,
devours the eyes of dreams. 
A finger decked with uterine blood
gropes for the sweaty nipples.

One orphaned embrace,
the condemned corpse’s
worms eat up
The question unasked in the midst of coitus;
pervades the rotting brain..

Henna ..
Before the candles of the last birthday burn out
why, the one, in the red books in and out,
the frozen girl, her thumbs tied up ...
to summer-hued mountains;
thrown up.

Will you too sit besides me..

Lastly, my veins of memories,
recall the endless pain.
Bitter dreams I keep abreast,
though teary eyed, to be born one day.
On the verge of the finishing trail,...
innocent words, born orphaned.
"As my inside simmer in darkness
Will you too sit besides me"