Monday, June 25, 2012

Fill in the blank . . .

Silenced by
that morning's pink sun,
her mother was
sitting calm,
when I visited them
last evening.

I saw the girl
looking at the sky
and counting.

'Are you counting
how many stars are there?',
I asked her.

she smiled.


'I am counting
how many are yet to come?'


Sunday, June 24, 2012

Do you know why?

'There is no communication
among inequals',
philosophised my friend
the other day.

'But why should there be communication
among equals?',
asked the boy
sitting next to us.


Thursday, June 21, 2012

The pink sun

'It's the same sun
but another day',
she was trying to
convince the child
this morning.

'No, mom!
It's the same day
but another sun',
said the child decisively.

The sun was of pink colour then.


Tuesday, June 19, 2012

Possessed . . .

'I have started morning walks',
the poet was telling his friend
last evening.

'You must be writing more poems these days'
responded the friend.

'I don't write poems'

'Yeah I know . . . you must be capturing
the happening poem'

'I don't capture either,
actually, it's the poem that captures me'

'Oh! so you want to say that
poems are capturing you more frequently
these days!'

'No. I select different paths on different days
to avoid being captured by the poems'

'That's interesting.
How's it possible?'

'It's not that difficult,
poems do have seasons.
During the pre-monsoon,
poems come to you
on the wings of
white little butterflies.
One needs to select
the desert path then'


'During the monsoon
in the neighbouring land,
poems come to you
on the mischievous wind.
It tries to enter you
disguised as dusty sand.
One should then walk along the river 
as its flow
will silence the chattering wind'


'During the spring,
poems get into the fragrance
of wild flowers.
It's then better to walk
on the sides of broad highways,
where the air is filled with
the smoke of modernity'


'During the winter,
it waits right next to your doorstep
as an early morning thief.
One should stay inside the house
covering oneself fully with a blanket
and pretending to sleep.
Never come out till the day is warm'


'When it rains
the valley gets filled with poems
and it's wise then to climb the hill'

that's why I saw you
climbing the hill the other day'


'But you still posted a poem
that day'

I climbed upto the hilltop
and was coming back.
After a little while
I just glanced over the valley
out of sheer curiosity.
It is then that poem recognised me,
flew across to the hilltop
only to jump on me from there'



Friday, June 15, 2012

I exist . . .

I remember
the first bird of the morning
to go out of that banyan tree
unfolded its wings
when I stepped into
the tree's shadeless base.

I remember
the first rain of the monsoon
poured down heavily
when I threw that
mango seed in my backyard.

I remember
the first crane of the season
to land on that paddy field,
arrived with its flock
when I crossed the canal
supplying water to the field.

I remember
the first star to appear
in that evening,
brightened up
when I looked above.

I wonder
if I could just remember
the first fish
to come out of its egg
in that endless sea . . .
also what did I do then?