If I were a love poem, I’d fall out
of skins. You would look at the red
autumn light and think of blood
that turned blue from being swept
by the beauty of a cold hour that
stroked fire from wet embers. I have
gazed keenly at your fantasies
and found nothing but non-utopian
realities about clean knees and elbows.
Look at me from truth, away from
a photo, find verses of dimensional tones
that will tell you of care that never
journeyed those oceans. If I were
a page of multiple sketches, you’d see
me break through the lines
without a trace

Everything is haunted here In this place called as The ‘town of the dead’. That man in grey shirt Says that even Paracetamol and Aspirin Tablets are no longer used here Because people believe that ghosts Are hidden in them. Hearing all this I remember How my mother used to warn me Not to eat the papaya seeds How she used to say They’ll grow into papaya trees Inside my stomach. Even today I say the same thing To the little children In my street. I enjoy the queer notions Things which take me to another world Things which make me believe in aliens Things which take away my breath When I know Th

In feline dreams
A hot sun gleams
And forest teems
With fur and fowl.

As green eyes gaze
At logs that blaze,
This tiger slays
The great horned owl

That calls each night
From hemlock’s height
And then takes flight
In feathered cowl

And tufted hat.
A touch, a pat—
Once more mere cat
With timid growl.

The embers die
And daydreams fly
On clouds too high
To stalk or prowl.

~December 2016


First published in Quarterday: A Journal of Classical Poetry, vol. 3, no. 1 (Imbolc 2017): 41.  

New York City, 1968 When last we met we sat on a stone bench in Central Park. Frost had put paid to summer and the big trees shivered in the tepid sun. We fed a squirrel the remains of your lunch. You said the draftees had left from Grand Central Station that morning-- your fallen face the color of the gunmetal sky. That winter the water main broke on the avenue that ran along the park. For months, we had to take the long way home. II When last we met we were in an apartment in the East Village-- above the shop that advertised “Fresh Produce.” You said the Weathermen had blown out all the wi

For being too foolish a poet,
a sea witch has hexed me,
and now I stumble hungry
through wheat fields, imagine
the moon to be my lover,
and shun society.
O, who will deliver me?
There is a woman whose
golden hair and laughing eyes
have often enticed me,
whose crystal sword and
glowing shield have often
awed me, whose bravery is
unmatched, whose armor
is made of basilisk scales,
and whose warrior’s contempt
makes the spring flowers tremble.
She alone can save my soul,
but alas! Her kiss is just
another kind of curse.

It’s music most that makes the world go round.
No matter what, no matter where, it’s there,
enchanting all with its melodic sound.

The echoes of its voice each day resound
with its unique and satisfying flair.
It’s music most that makes the world go round.

In every note is something so profound
that elegantly whistles through the air,
enchanting all with its melodic sound.

And as the people go to where they’re bound,
it rids their minds of every somber care.
It’s music most that makes the world go round.

Nayana walks along the byway,
Overhearing the chatter of
Impassioned passerines, while highway
Sounds upstage and rudely shove
Entrancing trills aside. Bird-twitter
Pokes and punches through noise-litter
Of rig, shrill siren, motorbike.
Let every sparrow have a mic!
Let every robin sing and chirrup
Unabashedly, each bright   
Timbre be a blade and bite