Catfishes

There are black
Squirming bodies
Trapped inside an icebox;
Catfishes with antennas
Fishmonger with his ax
And catfishes believe
Their antennas are stronger.
Few human cats
Prowl around the white box
Peep to smell fear
And the catfishes are still wet.
Only their whiskers twitch
Besides their wide-open eyes
When their black blood seep
They know they are dying
Should I ask them to calm
Down before death?
Or watch the evening steal
Their hue and sell them to night? 
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Reward

All that is beautiful
 
Gets rewarded in this world
 
Flowers get their fragrance
 
Butterflies get their honey
 
Clouds get their rain
 
Lightning get its thunder
 
Nature gets its spring
 
Sex gets its sweat
 
Streams get their ocean
 
Snow gets its ice
 
Books get their words
 
Home gets its windows
 
Pain gets its lessons
 
Time get its future
 
Tunnels get their darkness
 
Night gets its solitude
 
Wind gets its howling
 
Shadows get their form
 
Mountains their peak
 
Birds the sky
 
You, my beautiful,
 
Will get your love.

Tungsten

You wanted me
To save you from all ambiguity
But my tungsten heart
Could only hold so much of light
So little for your pain
You desired to know
Both the future and past
But my tungsten heart
Would guess your tiny breaths
Only to be light-years wrong
You thought maybe
I should burn whole life long
But my tungsten heart
Earned to be within darkness
In my own cold little space
You called me a coward
For who doesn’t need warmth?
But my tungsten heart
Knew it’s getting thinner
And will soon cease to burn.

In November

In November, in Delhi,
I see a mirror when I dream.
The mirror writing
Decodes into a warm body
That my soul needs for the lonely winter
In dreams, we are easily defeated
So I burn my thoughts
To keep me warm but
In November, in Delhi,
The sorrow, the cold,
Always return.
The seconds freeze and expand
As I pass in and out of sleep
Dreadful of the dim morning light
And another day in grey
Knowing
In November, in Delhi,
It is spring for those who love
And winter for those who could not.
It is clear for those who love
And foggy for those who would not
I take few memories
And burn them through the night but
In November, in Delhi,
The sorrow, the cold,
Always return.

Kaveri Maha Pushkaram

The sound of talking drum
Fell with painful thuds
Like the dance of the parched rocks
All along the course of dying Kaveri
The poor kingdom on her riverbed
Came out of their doomed homes
To hear the good news at last
And they heard it like a whimpering dog
Tortured to an extent it forgot what it means to be loved
Rejoice, the talking drum bellowed,
Kaveri is to be released from the dam finally
And the river after a long long time
Will flow like a maiden again
Then the talking drum changed tone and sneered,
But not for you, farmer, her true love,
You who eat your own shit for a chance to meet her
For a chance to feel her running through your fingers
For a chance to make love to her
For a chance to celebrate her
But the ten thousand cubic water released per second,
Capable of irrigating acres of your land,
Capable of erasing all your sorrows,
Capable of bringing a thousand suns to your dim households,
Is for the men who for thousand years dominated you
For a religious custom, you can never participate
For a one hundred and thirty-four year tradition that you will never understand
For sustaining a reason that reduces you to a slave
And you will accept it without a sound
Like you accept so many things
Including your premature death.
Saying thus the talking drum retreated
Back to the dungeons of the wicked,
Yet powerful men.

When I see a lonely bird

When I see a lonely bird

I get sad like its loneliness

 

When I see a lonely bird

I’m afraid the moment will disappear like December fog

 

When I see a lonely bird

I wade in the sea of poetry that washes me ashore

 

When I see a lonely bird

I’m all the discarded yet beautiful things in life

 

When I see a lonely bird

I become the dark storm clouds that cross mainland

 

When I see a lonely bird

I remember that the world is built on stories of the dead

 

When I see a lonely bird

I’m aware of the constant color changing sky

 

When I see a lonely bird

I hear soothing songs from an old transistor

 

When I see a lonely bird

I converse with the evil hovering above me

 

When I see a lonely bird

I realize I will always find a friend in nature

 

When I see a lonely bird

I envision the splendid moon blooming beside me

 

When I see a lonely bird

I count the number of grass I have rested upon

 

When I see a lonely bird

I’m as still as I’m flowing

 

When I see a lonely bird

I’m as anxious as I’m excited

 

When I see a lonely bird

I’m reminded I am human too.

 

Samosas for a Giant

It is said that in a factory in the North

Millions of samosas are made for a single

Foul smelling Giant who eats them all day long

Munching the mixture on its greedy yellow teeth

Stopping only to smack its lip or to let out a burp

Before ordering millions again

The giant is very particular that the samosas

Must be similar in size, all of them, no innovation,

No change in taste or face its uncontrollable fury

And thus the factory continues to run on the fuel of fear

Deceiving itself that it would be rewarded,

Each samosa repaid in the future with developments

And underestimating the appetite of the Giant

 

The truth is that the Giant doesn’t even love somosas very much

 

It just wants to control the potato population

That vegetates underground in different shapes and sizes

And usually, have a rebellious attitude to see above ground

The giant doesn’t like the ones who want to stare at sky and wonder

It wants resources that it can use to build up its own strength

And thus the Giant mush potatoes and stuff them inside a custom wrap

Frying them in hot boiling oil to kill them and eat

Munching the mixture on its greedy yellow teeth

Stopping only to smack its lip or to let out a burp

Before ordering millions again.