For the Love of Writing

We thump our feet in anger When fate swindles us. We thump our knees, in anguish When agony is absolved of beauty. We thump our buttock cheeks On seats listening to those, Whose flirtation with glory, is a crown, that fits, And a shoesize that gets bigger by the day. We thump our palms, calling…

Brown Man

I’m brown, as the useless fungi Creeping out of a log, that Has been there, like a boulder In the middle of the prairie, So are the sepia prints that are Closest to our color, that too brown; Filthy, dirty, squalid, brown. The descendants of the industrious Indian from Bihar, or the Ugandan Man who…

Metamorphosis

The dreamy moment of Worlds and Worldsworth The daffodils, the narcissists, a mirror’s birth How proud the child who drills a poem’s nail How the earliest dawn, is a wishing well pail How the tallest sky, the eagle’s lair How the bluest ocean, the jellyfish’s prayer, How the child, the poetic eye, the third periscope,…

A Poet During Night And Day

I stumble my way now, In my sabbatical away from work. A man, whose daylight hours Are spent under a roof. And the sun, Helios, I see him outside, Still not summoning me. If I was white, I would be seated On a beach chair, getting a suntan. The sun it smiles people say, The…

Two Poems on Hope

Hope 1 Down on Hollywood walk of fame There are stars ascribed to celebrities And I like a fool jumping into chase The stars given by arm-chaired editors Of journals far. Glory I realize Is just like the aluminum kettle that blows once And then tea and cake are served. How dreadful to To taste…

Writer’s Grief

A seething thought In the absence of an audience to clinically dissect A body of work or acclaim the light Seen through a gaping pupil Words will sometimes be, a little hard on the tongue And a little puzzling for grey-white knots Yet this scenic drive through the traffic Needs a clutch and the first…

Am I Special ?

Would words collapse like a sink hole, too beautiful to be true And I the wordsmith, pummeling the type writer keys With a Hemingway streak, and the metal heads Clattering on paper; Would I be special if I was Hemingway? And then I think of all the Cuban cigars smoked in a lifetime And all…

The Gift

It was a gift Given on his 14th birthday It was an era when the tongue Got used to curving in and out Making the tide as white as table-salt Still he was scared to use the blade of a sword – Kaduwa in his native tongue – Petrified of being another castaway In the…