Memories Unmemoried

Dancing Trousers


Oasis in memories

of desert rhythm of wilderness

sand is the poetry


Man turns a shadow

under tree arches rainbow

is the moonlight fog


My restlessness blooms

not thought but ulcer in the

stomach the flux of

shadows shape loss of

my son in the picture hall

I ‘wait interval


Do you hear pulses

of memory in graveyard

she groans in her dream

I search my voice in

echoes that break silences

of the soul in space


The mirror is so small

I can’t see the ocean

beyond my own look


Is it her quietus

that she roars

in herself

like a sea

waves upon waves

leaps upon herself?


He unpetals a rose

searching seeds through

tangled fingers

in thorny womb

it’s bleeding hopes


She picks out black seeds

of some flowers and says: “Papa,

these are souls, let’s sow them here

tomorrow they’ll grow as ghosts.”


As I curled ‘long her

we became a small rainbow

playing earth and sky

in half-dream weaving

legends of love in moments

unmemoried years


I leave my memories

in prayerful trance

float above my body

till rapping her fingers

at my soul she breaks

the silence: “I’ve come

with my dreams promised

years ago. Won’t you

once kiss and melt in me?


Blessed is

the bedroom

the bathroom

the kitchen

the drawing room

the terrace

the lawn

and every little

place and spot

where we prayed

or sexed together

we glorified our house

and declared His mysteries


Love is efflux

from her body spreading

all round the parabolic hue

enlightens the self

my being I merge

in her glowing presence


Dancing shades devour

waking tensions for a moment

closed eyes dissolve

years of clog

within the four walls

the flame is freed

from cloying dalliance

for a moment

it’s all calm

in her presence


When I wanted

to change seats

my friend said

she can, only if

the door’s locked

the lights out

and her mommy in

another city


She slams the door

to powder herself

or spray Eau de Toilette

in bed strange

I hear only

the kettle sing


While I sweat

in mosquito-net

waiting for a kiss

she goes to sleep

loosening her breasts and

removing her feet and eyes

and covers them under the sheet

for safe-keeping


If passion breeds beads of sweat

in winter night the plateau is reached

too much love can run one out


Down the corridors of night

I see love dying

for a chance vegetation

in sleepless dreams


Among the white hairs

a solitary black one

keeps her hope alive


Layers of dust thicken

on the mirror water

makes the smuts prominent:

I wipe and wipe and yet

the stains stay like sin


My wife laughs when I say

man seldom loves beauty:

when he sees a woman

he only sees her busts and bottoms

and length of bone in mouth

intelletualising his itches

he yearns to sink in mud

by the fig-leaf hue of hair


When the oleander was drying

I peed at its roots

three times a day

she laughed at me

but the shrub survived

and bloomed all red

“How beautiful” she said

when I plucked them for puja

this morning she shouted

“Don’t defile my goddess

these flowers smell pee”


Their nude dance

is no mean art

to rouse passion:

with apple flowers

they race

to find match

for upstanding nipples

under transparent blouse


Charm is the

spirit of beauty




expression of the self

not seen

but felt


Away from myself

I need a little breathing

with my back straight

for a spell of privacy

in my happier deep

the womb of December

and hear the first cries

I cried with the sun

in a pure moment


The quietest moment

when one is ones own

is in toilet or bath

reflecting inside out

through daily deeds

listening to whispers that rip

cosmetic simplicity or

split the landscape in hands

when elusive strength

blasts in silent search

in hollowness leaving

a dazed mind in crypt


The gates that clang

won’t still with poems

between their jaws

I must stop winds

to prevent them tossing

into the empty void


With the passage of time the sun’s become dull and unrefreshing

like my dreams turned weaker than weariness now

in the desert of desires no cactus blooms

nor a hand beckons me back to a world of hope

here breathing fossils and watching snaky waves

let me grab a moment for poetry and live:

I pity the mind that harbours ages of anguish

and crawls consciousness through knots in wrinkles


Poetry is not

just functional

like brief-case

it is personal–

an extension

of my self


I live with

ailments like

fretful years

creating gospels that

support the world

and sting my days

with cold fictions


They say Jupiter

reveals the inner man

the invisible hidden within

and my horoscope spotlights

the direction of my destiny

the sanskar of my soul

well-placed as benefactor

but what is the spiritual progress

with a strong drink in hand

the visible heaven in the present

the pitch that directs the runs

the battles I fight for existence

in Saturn world without

energy, life or joy?


What is this life

like the sun rising and dying

someone beginning and someone stopping

without presence being felt

without effect, striking, ending

long rituals of waste?

nothing saved except

years squandered in bed

feigning and unfeigning

the blood flows but doesn’t complain:

time seals the strife

born, married and dead?


Each one fears

each one is insecure

here each one doubts

with clouds in the mind

each house is a secret

silent arrogance bridges

distance between the hands

and what they need

they don’t speak out but search

their fate in circles of coffee

if bored of the drudgery

see terror in their own piss

or dig atoms of betrayal in walls

that make up the secret

and sleep their drugged nights

murmuring the bank balance


Their hands are sulphur

with butcher strength

above the pit they drift

like shadow against dying sun

longer than themselves

against the floodlight from dome

they create new ‘glyphs

to feed night to sunken world


The morning’s withered flesh

and swollen skin of the day

by bloody nullah in smoke

tears shade tomorrow

like today, everyday they cry

but nobody hears groans, or sees

dark eruptions on naked walls

that hide maps of bones

and skeins of dreams piled

beside broken hearth hate

is a luxury of helplessness

they won’t believe or accept

if there is a hell on earth

it’s here, it’s here. It’s here


Boneless shadows

empty lawns

moon through ribs

of the arbour and tumult

of the flesh crack

shells of pain:

whose are the hands

that weave nightmares

with ashes of rose

and face of a woman?


The old rats

in nature’s breach

design new rooms

to negotiate disgrace

and belief beyond election

with plastic sense

enrich their substance

drinking, voting, smiling


A horse-headed thief

bullied the bearded man

like the mythical demon

who disappeared with the Vedas

but no fish appeared

to rescue him


Every face

is a finger

peeling off

skin like banana

erect or twisted



with head

twisted like a

manager’s tail in chair

before boss with

pen in



My bones have holes for eyes

I search my teeth in the muck

leeches have sucked my blood

where’s the lout who ate my flesh?


Beard grows like fog

on their cheeks

in half-dead streets

night slides like yoke

to release them

in glass chambers

mummies need no sun


Sheep grazing the rainy green

after days of sunless day

crouching I stir from hibernation

seeking a handful belonging

in aloneness of wild growth

eluding the mossy gateway and

patterns of walls, sheep and sun


Suddenly through the spring

blows hot the wind

circulating colours of summer

shabby roads and houses

dust inside outside

melt silence like tar

or bleach skulls that thought

once, now fossil like rocks

in ageless hibernation

my quest ends or stirs

lewd rituals stomping

about fresh bit in thongs

I don’t know what it is

the cheek of terror or sweat of skin

or wind is grasping for breath?


They take away the day’s flower

husk I retain for tomorrow

nobody knows what the robbers may look for


What I write shows

my past even if frail

like leaves of years:

I love the wind if

it makes the city flutter


Harmony in duality

is unity of tongues

to sculpt new dreams

made of living rock.

we aren’t different

in our same land:

our poems are woven

from the same skein of language

weathered by time and nature


The solitary bird

like uninspiring tracks moves

alien homeward


The whispers of the forest

inside me

will be quiet tomorrow

and no tree will weap

no one knows

what was the weather like

in the heart

negotiating ideas and images

Leave a Reply

Next Post

Nose Job Capital of the World - Beverly Hills Or Tehran

Fashion conscious women prefer to spend their money in plastic surgery and proudly show it off. They want smaller noses to look almost like Barbie. “You guessed wrong! I am not talking about Beverly Hills but rather Iran.” A Beverly Hills rhinoplasty specialist explains. With Over 100,000 plastic surgery per […]