falling...

a momentous year
just gone by--still, i, bobbing,
hurtle down the fall...

*****
happy new year to all my friends!

click

this morning on the roof of my house i found a new nook.

a place where everything was new!
the perforated parapet streaking across in splashes of light and shadow to the right,
the flowing silhouette of a slanting palm balancing the frame to the left,
birds flying their different ways across the sky...

and i found a totally new answer to an old riddle!

*****

transcendence

from dawn past into the midnight
we were on the cliff
overlooking the lagoon,
speaking nothing, watching
the fishermen flowing out with the ebb tide,
returning heavy with the evening tide,
and,
under the moon,
we found the ebb and flow,
out and in,
frozen
to the beyond.

*****

Merry Christmas!

I got this SMS greeting from a friend today and forwarded it to many friends:

He had no servants--yet they called Him the Master;
No university degrees--yet they called Him the Teacher;
No medicines--yet they called Him the Healer;
No army--yet the kings feared Him;
He won no military battles--yet He conquered the whole world.
So we celebrate the birthday of this great hero of all times, JESUS...
Merry X'MAS!

I cannot put it in better words. Merry Christmas to all my friends!

*****

Writing

Experimenting with different ways of placing words in relation to one another, I have now come to the position that going straight for clarity is the best way of communicating.
What I mean is, don't think you have to be vague to make it sound a poem, don't consciously do that. But vagueness can also come when you try for the exact, because truth is that which cannot be put into words and the more words you use for clarity, the farther away from truth you go.
That is why the Bible is so full of parables, the great ones had always spoken in parables. You understand what I tell you, don't you?

*****
(This is a comment to a nice poem by my nephew and I think there is sense in it for all my young friends on the blog.)

life

like a thin twisting
wisp from a lit incense stick--
fragrance now and gone.

***

lest i forget

every body continues in its state of motion or rest,
unless acted upon by an outside force.

the outside force can be
in the nature of one's conditioning,
the conditioning of those around you,
or both in effervescent interaction.

how to steer ourself through this street,
without bumbing into one another
and injuring ourselves,
injuring our creativity,
injuring the feeling of being happy,
is also a test.

*****

Why I blog

This is a slightly polished version of a comment I posted today in reply to another comment against one my pieces. I am putting it as a separate post since it is about why I blog.
I started this blog in August 2008 when I was in a kind of trauma (with a badly shaken ego), the details of which are irrelevant now.
Round about the same time I started going deeply into Krishnamurti and Osho and I started seeing what was wrong.
I started noticing that when I have an agenda or a desire all creativity in me is dead. The mind moves in two directions, either to the past or to the future, either weighed down or elated by what had happened in the past, or worried or spinning grand schemes of the future.
This process, whichever way the movement of the mind, bogs one down. One is not light and free to respond to the moment, neither in the profession, nor in personal life. It is very difficult to make the mind still. Only when the mind is still, I started noticing, can there be creativity.
This blog I started with the intention of watching this watching process in me, although there are other trivial things also in it. It is something for myself, and my friends on the blog are helping me along.
Thank you.

*****

leisurably

trying to stay sober
in the company of some of the most polished
gentlemen in the city,
after a couple of drinks,
can be tricky.

but a sudden thought sends a bolt
into my head:
does it really matter,
whether i'm sober or not
this night?
especially when i'm with
such a lovely gang of lovables in straight jackets
carrying a burden that never is,
especially also mr. pompous-hompous,
the company chief?

and suddenly i melt into the party
and tickle them all
by turns in the ribs
with rowdy jokes and greasy fingers,
for i am alternately eating
using no forks,
and forks and spoons and spoons and forks
get mixed up all the way...
nobody anymore can keep count how many.

we wake up the next morning,
each one at different hours, of course,
may be with a headache or two,
otherwise okay, if you know what i mean...
i in my bed...
well, i must confess,
i'm not too sure about mr. pompous-hompous!

the last i see of him...let me remember...
he stops his car...
at the city square...
under the statue...
emptying his bladder leisurably over its feet...
yes, singing like the dickens, throwing his head up,
into the night air,
the selfsame song of unrequited love
i had sung hugging him at parting time,
to the clapping of hands by the whole gang
of his obsequious subordinates.

he was empying thus at the feet of the universe,
singing my song till hearts should break,
when a police jeep...
lights circling,
came slowly c.l.o.s.i.n.g... in.

and i was cruising along the other side of the road...
silently.

*****

The deep resonance of poetry

I am sharing this article I had written for my newspaper with my blogger friends since it is about a 'poetry slam' to be held in Thiruvananthapuram this evening. My reading of Basho had come in to help me add colour to this piece.

This is the link: http://www.hindu.com/2009/12/15/stories/2009121558510300.htm

*****

A little finger

How complicated we have been making out our country to be!
Such a relief to learn, reading the newspaper, that Yuvraj Singh's injured little finger (of the left hand, which powers his merciless hitting of the Sri Lankan bowlers) is India's biggest worry on the 15th of December, 2009.

The match begins at 9 a.m., Indian Standard Time.

*****

the ball

the ball,
a sphere of leather hexagons
sewn tight in black and white,
its bladder pumped to the right temper,
lies in the middle of the indoor stadium,
totally at rest.

i take a run-in and kick it,
with a nice swing of the right foot,
and it sails
and hits the wall and bounces back
bum bum bum bum bum...
dribbling,
rolling round and round
and settling,
chuckling...
now, totally at rest.

*****

north wind

whirl!
my girl's saree fringe
swirls,
round my face it
furls...

blow again, north wind!

*****

abuzz

no, no, not this tap--
ants busy winter hoarding
yesterday's tidbits.

*****

i-look

"baby lakshmi-look!"

"scowl ambi-look,
brow sajo-look,
brains i-look."

*****

(an sms communication between my cousin brother and me after his seeing my grandchild's photo e-mailed to him.)

karthika

karthika lights blink--
our temple back home--should be--
glowing devotion!

*****
(karthika is the annual day of the deity of our family temple in the village. on that day we light oil lamps all around the sanctum santorum and all our family people, from far and wide, come to worship the Devi in the golden glow of a thousand lamps. when a child, i used to be a leading player of the whole show, especially in lighting the lamps and ringing the temple bell at the time of deeparadhana. it is also a day of family reunion. today is karthika. this time i could not go. the day came to me while driving home in the night after work and finding the houses on either side lit by karthika lights.)

*****

the Truth

the response of the moment
is the truth of the moment;'
but we falsify the truth
by guiding the response.

*****

nothing happened

dearest,
nothing happened
the whole evening.
there was no sunset,
rain clouds
heavy in the skies...

you didn't come, it didn't rain.
only the sea... restless.

***

(an old love letter)

a teardrop

my reflection
in a teardrop...
i hold your face and kiss it
away.

*****
(an old piece)

an apple...for you

just this big--
maybe even less--
encapsulating the whole universe
in a palpitation

*****
(an old piece)

A Letter

For days it was as if I never existed.
You have blotted me out of your world
Like a wilted flower from your vase.

I have treasured our unuttered pledges:
Rising with your name as a prayer on my lips,
Breathing the morning breeze,
Marveling,
Oh God,
Isn’t this the same fragrance my dear one breathes!

I waited beneath your window last night,
My heart aflutter in the moonlight
For a rustle at the curtain,
The fleeting glimpse of a shadow...

Throughout you kept it shut.

*****

(This is another poem from my teenage days, when I was terribly in love with a girl, who, as it turned out, became my life partner subsequently. Slightly edited because of the age factor and my present status as a grandfather.)

*****

Continuum

You will never tell me, will you,
What blessings you sought,
What silent wishes,
Hands folded in prayers yesterday
In the Sacred Grove of our delusions.

You merely smiled.
The peacock spread its plumes
And danced for me.
A whole constellation of stars
Shifting...
Oh, our star-crossed love!

*****

This is something I wrote when I was around the age of 20. I looked it up from an old notebook this morning when a beautiful poem by Binu, a fine young poet in our circle, reminded me of the old days. It is a continuum all the way. Nothing has changed. I am posting it here without editing it, deleting not even expressions such as 'delusions' and 'star-crossed love,' which I would have rather avoided now.

*****

the fly

now i hear of a religious man who,
having lost all his hair from chemotherapy for cancer,
thinks it over and finds how
he can turn the whole affair to his advantage
saying
he had gone worshipping to the shrine where we shave our hair
as an offering to the Lord.

*****

grandpapa

baby girl!
the phone rings one minute past five a.m.

i open the door...
a streak of daybreak in the east;
the birds,
still drowsy in their perch...

clap-clap-clap,
thrice i clap my hands...

*****

hoeeeyy!

hoeeeyy! hoy-hoeeeyy!
from lane the fishmonger's call--
five cats reach him f-i-r-s-t!

*****

nestlings

all day up the hill
on wobbling legs we climbed
to reach the elephant rock
and crawl our way to the top
at sunset to look
down the final ledge
into an eagle's nest!

*****

friends

i turn the corner
in my car--the stray dog! smiles,
makes way, i smile back.

(smack in front! sorry,
he said, and moved to the side,
its all right, i said.)

*****

Silent Valley

For us to understand our relation with the whole we have to step out
of the sterilized hum of our air-conditioned cabins and go to an
untouched evergreen valley that had evolved over several millions of
years.

There we encounter the silence of eternity. We hear the soft touch of
our feet on the dead leaves that carpet the ground and then we skip a heartbeat as a bird rustling the canopy in flight startles us…

We freeze a moment watching the bird take perch on a sagging vine and
swing, wipe its beak against the vine from left and right, cock its
head askance at something, preen its feathers to enjoy an itch, and
fly away again, flashing to us the full glory of its plumage.

We find ourselves smiling… What bliss!

Now we hear a langur somewhere calling khu-khu-khu-khu and a stream
gurgling down the fold of the valley. The answering khu-khu-khu-khu
comes from another direction and we are in the middle of a grand
concert--birds, squirrels, and so many other lovely little
creatures we don't know have joined in!

We have never been part of such celebration all around… We have never
known this is how it has always been and suddenly we see the now of
the moment flowing down from millions of years to fill us and
overwhelm us…

And how cool and fragrant the air we breathe! We kneel down and kiss
the Earth...

In this Silent Valley is the whole. We have so withdrawn ourselves
into little cabins of our ambitions, worries, greed and hatred that we
have never known the love that only the whole is.

Silent Valley is like the first man on Everest, because it showed that
the Everest of insensitivity in the self-enclosed modern mind, which
spells doom for the entire Earth, can indeed be conquered.

Many more mountaineering victories have followed over the last 25
years since its declaration as a National Park. Many more will follow.

And it is for all times to come. We have only to take to
this place the people who decide the destiny of our survival together on
Earth for them to see what is and what is not. A lightening bolt of
austerity will strike them to change their vision on development.

*****

(Note: On November 21, conservationists and nature lovers are meeting in Silent Valley to celebrate the 25th year of the victory of their campaign to save the pristine evergreens of the area.)

*****

sleepless

frogs vociferous,
as night rain leaves...the loudest
must be tortoise-large.

***

treetop hut

we were sitting in the treetop hut in the jungle late into the night, as silent as sleeping doves.

the lamps we had snuffed out to better see the lake in the dim haze of the clouded night sky.

the lake was like a mirror, reflecting the wooded hills symmetrically in water. there was not a ripple on the clean sheet of mirror--sharp and clear as eternity it was, so tangible and within reach. we sat thus for all the time to come.

then i realised i was holding my breath. we were both holding our breath!

do you know, my friend--i hush-hushed--we are holding our breath, we dare hardly breathe...

together we dropped tingling into the stillness of the moment and the lake started rippling and a nightbird somewhere started singing.

*****

mynahs

mynahs a dozen
hop, hop, hop, pick...hop, hop, pick--
dew beads on wet grass.

***

amma's aviyal

inside mom's luggage
on board the flight to a faraway land,
where daughter expects her first child,
a small packet of cleanly washed local vegetables--
drumstick, green mango, jackfruit seeds...
for a nice dish of aviyal,
amma's aviyal.

*****

who,

knee over the knee,
in the porch on rainy morn,
reads the newspaper?

***

she cop

a hooting whistle
on her lips meant for kisses...
booked for wrong parking!

***

pillion rider

each time he slows bike--
spring blossoms, succulent fruits...
her coy, joyous hug!

***

lollipop

burly constable
sipping crimson lollipop...
mustachios bristling!!!

***

seductress

the picture smiles...
do you dare, speak up, painter,
make one small blemish?

***

shhh...

step lightly beneath
this cherry tree...feasting time...
seven nightingales!

***

tick tick tick

the stray bull's eyes glint,
watching, heart all afflutter,
the red-frocked stunner!

***

the morning after

slumped the mahout sleeps,
astride the tired elephant...
festivities done.

***

drums and bugles

keep the gate closed...
ants troop dancing on its top...
rio carnival!

***

hundred metres dash

rainclouds gallop high
hard i run panting breathless...
who will reach home first?

***

vertigo

flowers mesmerized
by their glow aloft the trees
do have vertigo

***

on the beach

nuns inhale the sun
sea-cast pearls around their feet...
oh giggling penguins!

***

a white horse

froth-mouthed, a white horse
gallops up the hill...silent...
dissipating clouds.

***

quiet

quiet, the bamboo grove...
from each drooping leaf-tip hangs
a drooping dew-drop

*****

steering thought

thought is like a drum:
all it wants is a cue,
then it gets going
dum, dum, dum,
tridudum, dum, dum,
dum, tridudum, dum, dum.

it's also like my old car,
it may sail along blind to the truck
rushing round the corner.

shaken, what do i do?

i turn myself into the car,
its flanks are my flanks as well,
the throttle of its engine is my breathing.

now it's quite the same
as when we used to run
marathons,
starting off in a pack--
at the sound of the gunshot--
through the city traffic.

we don't nudge one another,
we don't step on one another's shoes;
we run listening to one another,
listening to the patter of our shoes
on the road,
listening to our breathing;
and gradually,
pulling off from the pack,
into the villages,
listening just to one breathing,
listening to the bounce of just one pair of feet...
on spring cushion.

*****

kingfisher

the kingfisher
stalls'n rolls
into a blue bolt,
shoots into the pond'n
shoots
up into the sunlight, fleeing
a sprinkle of words
on water, holding
in its beak, flapping,
me!

***

modern haiku

how aloof his pose!
up my friend's clean shirt collar,
a beetle!...should i?

*****

tunnel

as the barber clips my hair,
there is a mirror on the wall,
there is a mirror at the back.
wedged in between,
i reel
into a tunnel of faces,
all similar!

they smile together,
wink their left eyes together,
scratch their noses together--
so cocksure
in their conspiracy together.
who, who might have done the crime?

an eye-witness,
called to a strange identification parade,
i peer at each face,
matching it with the memory of a shadow
folding into a row of shadows.

"the beard, shall we take it off," the barber asks.
"no, let it stay," i tell him.

*****

how i write poetry

on waking up each morning i climb the rock
overlooking the valley and sit light
with the gun resting on my knees
for the poem to step into the clearing.

when it does,
i hold my breath,
take a good aim,
and pull the trigger.

*****

deliberate

as dangerous as the cat,
back to the wall,
bristling, claws drawn out,
canines hushed, whiskers on fire,
tail sticking up,
like a deliberate finger,
wagging,
no, no, no, no, no,
it won't do,
it won't do at all.

*****

black and white

a hundred crows flutter
in a cawing cawing flutter
they wing
up and down and up and down and round
the crow
gleamy-eyed
shiny-feathered
lying on the warm sand
under the sun

***

sleeping...

today i find myself
as spontaneously unpredictable
as a dynamite,
the lit lead pausing,
on the edge of spark contact--
dead,
or sleeping.

***

'blum' (The Eternal Law)

not a speck of the real
reflects in the pond.

neither the stars,
nor the moon,
nor the tall palms
silhoeutted against the glow of the milky way.

everything goes out of purpose
into a slithering,
twisting,
rolling,
dance of the unreal...

i wait here,
watching,
for the ripples to dance out their dance.

*****

This is what Lao Tzu had to say about finding the Eternal Law (as taken from an Osho talk):

Attain the utmost in Passivity,
Hold firm to the basis of Quietude.
The myriad things take shape and rise to activity,
But I watch them fall back to their repose.
Like vegetation that luxuriantly grows
But returns to the root from which it springs.
To return to the root is Repose;
It is called going back to one's Destiny.
Going back to one's Destiny is to find the Eternal Law,
"Tao."
To know "Tao" is Enlightenment.
And not to know the Eternal Law, "Tao,"
Is to court disaster.

*****

to my son *

don't grieve

fathers will come and go

sons should grow up
to be strong men

***

empty corridor

sitting here
the chair tilted at this angle
i see
reflected on the window pane
the entire stretch of an empty corridor.

surely,
a great omen.

***

self-importance

how sad...
all the glory of humble life they miss--
these great men,
giddyingly engrossed
deep in the glory of their own self-importance.

*****

dawn

naked feet
tapping down the stone steps,
i quiver...
the pond,
in dawn-chill haze.

***

uniformly...

the same footprints,
coming and going, coming and going,
along the long trek path,

breathing...
changing shape...

uniformly.

*****

hush...

did you,
there at the stern of my canoe,
sit with your oars gently paddling,
as the lull fell over the river
and dark clouds billowed up the skies,
the trees, leaning over,
holding their breath
for the birds
to return safe to roost,
before the storm?

did you,
just a moment ago,
smile,
still-freezing the lull,
reassuringly...
gently paddling?

*****

faintly

something...
vanishes into thick ether,
swimming ripple-less.

faintly,
from far away,
the drumbeats of onam.

*****

what was it?

over the thin glaciers of a dream,
gingerly,
i made my way to something beautiful last night.

i remember,
nodding my head to myself,
saying:
“yes, this is it! this is it!”

waking up,
i hadn’t the faintest notion,
what it really was.

*****

kama

we clutch at straws
like straws that shall
float its own

stop clutching
to float

but clutch we must
to unlearn clutching

***
(just something that came in uninvited, the dawn just breaking.)

night fever

waking up in the dead of the night,
with a parched throat, running a hot fever,
can be fun,
as i discovered last night.

take a long draught from the jar
without spilling,
snuggle inside the blanket,
and let me let my jaws
hang free, just the right way.

as i shiver,
the molars chatter with a bass note;
the other teeth have different notes,
according to the make in each case.

each breath turns into a celebration.
two beats now, three beats next,
then a rumble beat as the drumsticks fly.

and in the background,
a voilin's soulful music,
over the aching strings of my body...

i didn't want the dawn to come.

*****

letter to a young poet friend

You should keep on reading and writing. There is poetry in your mind.
Somehow the prose influence casts a shadow. By prose, I also mean gross. Once you get to know the idiom of poetry, these five pieces will look altogether different.

Don't say much. Allow the reader to participate. You should give only
the key. Let the reader open the door and enter. Poetry opens the door
to a higher level of understanding of the world around us. I have noticed that poetry blooms in a state of 'let-go,' when one does not exert, but keeps the mind empty of thoughts and listens. Don't make the process laboured. Fly as light as a bird.

Listen to this for simplicity, a poem by Basho, 17th century Japanese poet:

Mad with poetry,
I stride like Chikusai
into the wind...

Chikusai was another poet much admired by Basho.

Stride into the wind, feel it, and write. Walk into the rain and get
drenched when you write of rain. Taste the sweet tang of the plum to
know the poetry of plum. It is an exciting journey when you truly get
into it. All the best.

*****

playtime

he takes a thrust with his sword
through and out through my heart
we hug, laugh and hug;
the blade
had pierced sheer void

*****

pause

woodpecker
stop pecking...listen--
temple bell !'.!'.

***

she

she keeps this me
of drifting non-attachment
anchored.

this morning she made me
scrape the bird droppings from the window sill,
dust the cobwebs
and wash my cloths,

grabbing me by the scruff
out of the precipitous depths of a poem
about two butterflies
falling in and out,
in and out,
with one another.

*****

hide and seek

squeak, squeak, squeak...
the squirrel's tail bounds--
my heart pounds--
where, in hiding, its mate?

*****

night breeze

night breeze
over the moonlit valley--
a bat wheels, spread-winged!

*****

haiku streak

moon-gazing still night
jasmins all abloom...my love's
tresses silver-streaked

***

rush hour

a bottle of i-v fluid dangles tubes and all swinging wild
from a fist shot bristling
high through the open window of the car
zig-zag swerving
staggering
headlights flashing
horn
screaming screaming screaming screaming screaming.........

and then the silence of the rush hour traffic...

*****

flux

the whole avenue unfolds before my eyes.

buildings change shape,
billboards the letters of the alphabet.

neon signs blink bedlam.

man's never ceasing lust for conflict
scurries hither and thither and yon,
searching for non-existent answers...

faces change expressions
in a swirling flux.

*****

a ripple

the moon
a sailing smudge of butter in the clouds...

listen--
cuckoo song!

into the rain-happy chorus of a thousand frogs...
a ripple.

*****

holiday

a feather
spirals down
stalk first,
making a silent point that needs no elaboration.

a parrot
crackles
in sunlit flight from shade to shade,
making another point that defies all argument.

palms climb jubilant.
half-moon sinks.
a peal of laughter in the public pond.

holiday.

*****

amnesia

in a sudden flash i realize:
i have forgotten
the art of remembering you.

we simply sit facing each other,
a smile glowing between us,
speaking nothing.

i have forgotten the entire way
i had flown
reaching your side...
like a river
never remembering
the meandering way from where.

into your eyes i dissolve,
forgetting
even your name.

*****

poetry*

the trick is to empty the mind of all thoughts.

i have noticed how thoughts bog me down--thoughts of this and that--planning, scheming, wishing, fretting... always struggling to become.

the unburdening of thoughts is easier said than done. one cannot do it by trying. it has to happen without trying.

watch passively each thought that comes in through the door; watch it do its work.

then, by and by, you find it leaving by the same door it had entered.

only in the spacious silence of this emptiness is there poetry.

writing poetry is not important. you should not turn it into another burden. just be... as when you were a child, seeing everything for the first time, seeing the stupendous wonder of it all.

there is a different quality to the state of just being.

suddenly you begin to feel the wind on your face, see the clouds drifting in the skies and hear the birds singing in the trees. you feel your pulse beating in the arteries of every being around you. the whole flows into you.

then there is an overflowing.

in this overflowing is the flowering of poetry.

writing it can never be the same.

*****
(*letter to a friend confronting writer's block.)
*****

question

you are a winner
when you win;
you are a loser
when you lose.

has it anything to do with you?

*****

Aum *

this moment of consciousness i share with the child just born somewhere
taking its first breath wailing
and with my friend here in the hospital bed
gasping out his last breath.

his children chant the glory of Ram.
the whole room resonates.

beyond the window the sky resonates.
an eagle circles unhurried
among the clouds,
like a duster erasing all statements,
all beginnings and endings.

*****

reunion *

the first rains of another indian summer monsoon
came pouring down...
together we set paper boats sailing
over the pool in our backyard...
away somewhere...

*****

sparkle

there is a sparkle in the canopy—
tilt your head this way and that—
rainbow flashes
blinding—
blue, red, green, violet...flashes—
a dewdrop,
a kohinoor,
this moment.

***

out of step *

being here
disconcerts.

here I am--
an unreal entity in an unreal city.

sometimes i am as eloquent
as a tomb in a merry park.
revellers fall silent in my presence.
and when they walk away,
their footsteps on the gravel path,
dumb with forebodings.

at other times i am a wild lily
that had escaped the gardener’s notice;
and i waltz with the roses and dahlias
to the pitch and fall of the breeze.

it disconcerts...
to be thus
conspicuous.

***

electrified *

i hear the tolling of the bell
the beating of the falcon’s wings...

i quiver expectant—
the steel claws lifting soaring into the clouds weightless swinging
electrified…

*****

Baffled *

Baffled I am all of a sudden—
Why I am I and not you?
Have you ever wondered, dear,
Why you are you and not me?

I feel your fingers twined around mine,
Your pulse throbbing on mine;
But I can’t say which is which—
The beats diffuse as mist into mist.

You open the window and look outside:
I see through your eyes a solitary crow
High on the swaying sparkle of a tree
Preening its feathers warm in the sun.

Its feathers all damp from last night’s rain,
It shakes its fluff in shuddering bouts—
Oh how it itches, itches, beneath the wings!
How nice the sharp beak combing, scratching!

Baffled I am all of a sudden—
Why I am I and not the crow?
Have you ever wondered, dear,
Why you are you and not the crow?

*****

Under Orion

How many more hours
For this mosquito drowning oblivious
In the sweetness of my blood?

How many more springs and autumns,
From smiles to tears and then to exploding ecstasy,
For me the joy of being?

How many more trillions of millenniums—
Orion—
Dissipating into the vacuum of nothingness!

*****

Sunbird

He soars
And plunges into the canopy
Flashing zig-zag
Through twigs and branches
Alighting light as eternal peace
On this leaf
Picking the ripest
Twittering...

On TV
Over Gaza
The machine zooms zig-zag
Over the streets
Never alighting
Picking this and that
Twittering...
Wreaking futility.

*****

Journey

Women in purdah
Await the train from north:

One, a monument,
Fingers locked, meditating;
The other,
Scanning the page in vogue
Through her black veil.

Southwards,
The rails stretch silver
In the dawning light.

*****

fish in the tank *

my gills flap shut and open
lips pouting
blowing bubbles swirling
to the surface going
plop, plop

i twirl my tail stalling
fins on thin ether
groping
unsure where, what, why,
glass-eyed
trying to remember
who

*****

New Year

Parting the mist on New Year dawn
Waddling into the sun
Muffler-wrapped
A whiskered gentleman
Resolute on his morning walk.

*****