Tuesday, December 22, 2009

The Migrant worker's poem

Bare branches of the champak tree
And two forlorn flowers
Cast loneliness at the cold breath
Of ashen skies

No sunset today.

Sleep has exhausted its dreams
And at night
Having set up his mosquito net
He scratches his chest and loins
And sifts through fantasies
For names of pleasures
That would do

Reluctantly tuck in
And slip off to oblivion

Morning comes with an upsetting configuration
Of the hands of the watch

Hours pass,
Late for office.
And hours pass
And tea and cigarette times.
And time for lunch
And a quick siesta
And the two hours
Of the second half.

And tea at the shanty
And lightening conversation of fellow ghosts
Tuesday gone
And another three to go.

But the return

The return

Wherever you go
The return!

Kolya Nagar, Dhanbad, Late 2008/early 2009?

Thursday, December 10, 2009


Ashes float in the sunlight of the new rice
And the deep purple melancholy
That oozes from every pore of the earth
And congeals around the trunks of deceiving luminescent green
(leaping to low branches in evenings)

The empty cold wind turning
Turning on itself
And again
Floating on the new light of the new year
Can no more lead me astray
To her tripping alleys of pleasure
Of the mischievous running staircases to the terrace
Of skirts and knees and the warm surrender of laughter on my chest
Of her hair on my neck across her face of the salt of her kiss
Of the fullness of love.

No more.
For I who have traversed fifty cycles of the sun
Who has been drowned nine lifetimes
In the endless gutters of monsoon afternoons
Who has lost his steed and sword
And is condemned to ration queues for life
When on a wrong turn of the dice
Exchanged a Mohenjodaro of sighs
For the endless brook of her chitter chatter
Who in the endless wait for the yet unformed
Has watched kites as dusk condensed on her inconsolables.

Have worked it out (though not understood)
That only the light

03/01/2008, 06/01/08, 27/2/08

Wednesday, December 09, 2009

Sin, unoriginal

The wind damp, cool, south-west
The mind ashen, like the widow’s sari, drying
The stone quartz, peeping out of the home earth to trip you
The dream, the battles, the ploughed earth, the blood.


The sky beaten cotton in the floating cold
The belt tight, the collar, tight
Marbles, heavy pockets.
The returning report card.

The skirt, underneath
The mind Black, stone, iron, chest
Bruised knees Bruised elbows
Fifty lashes on the back of a choking soul

City, petrolly
Indifferent, grime.

Never another morning

Mother, mother….

May the Light forgive you.

Tuesday, December 08, 2009


like a falling stone
through yellow green foliage
through sunlight of the liquor tea.
half understood

After half a life
Pebbles on the stream bed.

is that love
as the gold fish.