Wedding sounds

Sounds come from drums and pipes
From silences ,vacated by crickets
Owl’s shrieks, crane’s sleep-sounds
Men turning in a sleep, from dreams.

The wedding sounds are of joint sleep
Of many liquid nights and tear sounds
From black-lined eyes, red hurt noses
Sounds of two bodies sleeping, rising.



We hear about the boy who stared in the hospital
Trying not to cry, when they were shaving his head.
It is the yellow of what may be lying inside the skull
That is what makes him cry, not just the egg-head.
An egg-head is a joke, a laughing matter in mirror.
We are all egg-heads and we are in this together.


There are mad mistakes making musty words
With gray funeral humor elegizing our deaths.
Bodies chuckle to themselves in fun humor
Taking a sneak peak at the elegies in making.
Elegies are gray named after English poets
But there can be shades in funeral fashion.
Like flies that swarm eyes quite unpoetically.
Gold finches are back or some such things.
Death is something we do slightly unusual
But our elegies are usual and gray repeats
With some fatal errors leading to dead ends.

( Reading Poets Mourning Poets : Paris Review Daily )


We hear the deep throat voice of a girl
Made faceless by an unwanted acid love
As it slept on the roof under a full moon.
Face book cannot resolve her moon-face
But screams are heard across our roofs.

(An 18 year girl of Dhanbad, Sonali Mukherjee has lost her face to a vicious acid attack by a spurned suitor)

Playing irony

Child cry is the beginning of war and night
A sadness enveloping , irony growing lives
Stupidity, not nature red in tooth and claw,
Snuffing out optimism from kids and news.

Bird baby falls dead from an air-conditioner.
A mother bird pecks at the angry sky space
On the internet wire , playing out its irony.

We play irony in news as a fresh narrative
As a drama on gun control or mental health
Thinking which is which, about baby’s mouth.
A baby bawls in the basement of a darkness.

(A young man,apparently deranged, shoots dead 20 total stranger children and a few teachers in Sandy Hook primary school in the U.S.A.)

The light grew less in his eyes

We hear this body’s fall steeped in melody
With exquisite sound gone from its fingers.
The eyes fell in broken strings , their music
Lost in the winter of its time, in its nightfall.

The glass spread quickly in its stringing eyes.
The big black eyes were strung to a fine song,
The song of a lifetime, the flow of a generation.
The sound is now ashes, the eyes just beads.

(on the passing of Sitar maestro Ravi Shankar)


You celebrate the birthdays of a baby’s eyes
That stream with primordial salt of blue aqua,
Tears that laugh at the subdued grief of mother
A rising nipple in the darkness of mountains.

Tears rise in the mountains , flow to the plains
And vanish in the valleys at the sunset corner,
Their history flows in the sun’s own timeline.
Birthdays are not for greeting after sunsets.
Their tears have already dried up at sunset.


The beginningless God presided
Over every worldly beginning
Rising from the mud-peelings
Of our own Magnificent Mother.
He would laugh at the annoying
Asymmetry of imperfect world.
The moon mocked at his belly
Rocking with food in laughter.

The crowds cheered their clay-God
Painted in kitschy acrylic colors
And national pride was restored
With their cacophonous film music.

Sparrows and mothers-in-law

Sparrows have turned heavy in stomachs
Of rice powder eating from beauty designs.
The sparrows are now not there in mirrors.
In afternoons they were pecking in mirrors
At sworn enemies in the mirrors of women
When they combed oiled plaits for evening.

They may have gone away, morning- sick
Or of too many cell phone calls in the air.
Women love their afternoon gossip ,you see.
Luckily mothers-in-law are gone for good,
Like sparrows that have gone from mirrors.

I-pad games

I-pad is fiction, pure pulp of no paper,
Eco-friendly but not friendly to echoes .
Its games are fiction like a dog’s barks
Eco-friendly but not very echo-friendly.
All things have to echo in some where
Like in the boxcar or in caves of men
Full of echoes of naked men scurrying
Like rats from holes, leaving tail-prints
In the dust of millions of funerals held
Elaborately to the echoes of drumbeats.