Really life isn’t good
good is in those infernal depths, good in those plumbing depths, back waters
of shores, where poetry takes a dip. Spectacular
crippled waves,

no good. goodness is in the
caked moon when dreams are over. Transparent. Shadowy. Return to life

when it is good – or not.

If you don’t have a poem
in lostness then words
in interplay will make
a hole, somewhere a wound
will not heal, only crying birds and a whispering wind will encircle skies lacerated with shots of the enemy. This is the world we live in even as we watch Republic Day on the tele, news has come that some gun-toting people are hovering with the wind, threating the sky, holding ramparts,so that poetry is blinded into a bleeding dog panting for a little water, so that the sky will not frown, and the hills not lament,
death of a poem.

Limbs loose
I was in hospital
I asked the doctor about my
blood pressure
the doctor told my wife
I had almost died
looked for my mobile
and was told that it was
in another ICU
and, then I knew that
my mobile was my
life.

Once a where
now a nowhere
he tramps among footprints
of hiatus
leaving an imprint
of silent, noiseless
legerdemain.

Try writing with a maimed hand
words will not write, only speak
the finger may not move
but words will into a long loop, an arc, a clever movement the heart and mouth will move
hands will not write, the mouth will, and words will take shape of the earthly, into a slow movement of a poem. The body will not write these words, not the hand.
The maimed hand will one day speak a poem.
The body, hands will not move.