Tablet stories

In between we buy a  Tablet. At the plaza where glitz spills in the hall and the corridors of  efficient silence.

The tablets abound in stories. Stories of a prude Helmer and his wife Nora ,trying to echo feminist cries in the nineteenth century. Stories of giant insects one finds oneself transformed into. A metamorphosis.

The cold weighs you down. In the head, a brandy might help lighten. But with that kind of smell one feels like a watchman looking for sorrow-escapes in the basement. Heck, this is an annual affair. The cold is a frivolous game played in the head. Nothing serious.


The business of being sad

The poet is sad because the world is sad, this business of being. Acknowledging it is sad. By the lakeside of a fish. Into the rarefied air of a summer morning.The  woman down there hurls abuses at  sadness, calls it a son-of-a-bitch. He didn’t do anything .Just stood on a stool mending the fuse wire.He stood there ,never came down while we remained in the dark. We did whatever we could with our static electricity. We tried to light our bulbs on our bodies. Our cars gave a jolt when you touched them. You may kiss them lovingly but do not touch their smooth surfaces. Electricity made you sad .

The universe is sad, a poem of sadness that gets rejected by indie publishers. Indie publishers pursue dead mules , live camels. The camels laugh at you from the height of their funny necks.  When the camels married mules, the camels danced while the mules sang. The camels praised the mule-song.The mules praised the camel-dance. They were  sad together.

The poet   had been trembling even in infancy. The only rest is to acknowledge and absorb the sadness of being.

The night cricket that thought night was morning

The grass was soft, silky but not wet. Today there is only light ,no dew. Yesterday’s  little paper planes the kids had made out of literacy pamphlets have flown or their debris has already been cleared after yesterday’s crashes.

Where the tree began a new sound was born of a night cricket that forgot it was morning.In my future rounds it would cry out, in a staccato rhythm, as I would be approaching the tree every time in my walking rounds. The sounds would come from an absence of cricket. The cricket was but an illusion. What you cannot see cannot be true. But the sound of a cricket is true like the light that falls on the grass and makes the grass real.

A dream is an image that cannot be true.It is pure representation of a real thing, not the real thing itself. But a shadow is  as real as the real thing. A halo is not representation, nor a silhouette a copy. These are real things.

The bamboo is smooth and round to the fingers. In the next round of walk ,when I return it would be smooth, round and cool. The sitting stone is boulder that forgot to become hill. It is brown and wet with hose water. The sitting stone rises from the grass. It does not sit in the grass. Only I sit on it.

My home is the tree where the cricket cries. Actually it is the place where I keep my sandals and come back to it after the grass walk. Some times I keep my sandals behind the green bench when the bare armed man is not making nostril noises there.

I pat my trees in each round in appreciation of their standing. I smell their little new flowers and praise their fragrance. Now I appreciate the cricket’s absence too.



At the vaulting dome the waves refused to travel unless on a few pieces of silver and a name. The flying metal bird will take two full hours .In the meantime the angels in turquoise will feed our appetites.There is fear lurking in our minds behind bravado.

We try to shut out noises of after-death failure.We blame ourselves for failures as though they really mattered to us and the dead. We read patterns in the grey whys of decay. As if the whole thing is a science of death and we have nearly mastered the art of dying, of succumbing to the need to maintain transience.

We smugly wear the polyester film of transience about us .We read poetry in the trivial tragedies of their tatters.


Dream logic

The car seemed to drive perfectly as in a reality model by a dreaming creature ,turning on his pillow.And now the dreaming foot would press a dysfunctional brake.

The foot did not exist ,only the story teller ,a god story-teller , within a grand logic of design, who thought no end of himself up to the sky.

The dream earth had no sky of billions of stars but the rules followed are exactly of the earth air.

But why these partial rules of the reality model when it can dream a better model than reality like cars with no brakes but stopping thoughts.


Little birds, little children

They have not put wind in pipes yet. Their wind is yet to form in breeze. But once a breeze begins it will end in whoosh through gaps in window, a light indistinguishable from wind.

An apple goes up and down an Adam .A circle of girl lips is mango’s cuckoo, a deaf bird marking the school time, a breeze shushing an old man pipal .

They were little children, little birds.


News missile

His lion’s mane would wave significantly to the management kids on wings of fire. A sunset shall now bury president of all time.

The old paper boy had aimed upper story with news missile to reach morning cup. Later he made missiles for the high skies. His targets are always on time , in space.

(India’s most illustrious President and missile scientist Dr.Abdul Kalam passes  at the age of 83)