Impressions-Hyderabad 1

FMC club, quiet, soft
Dim, tipsy
You
Your mute company
Drinking
Four hours
Looks, talk, seeing
As strangers.
Still you entered
And ensconced
In my mind.
Is it proper
That you spray
thus
Your presence
In somebody else’s Mind?

12. Hybrid

The hybrid sunflowers
turn their back on
the sun,
their existence protected,
under cover.
You have mortgaged
your values,
slogging to pay up
the interest,
you opportunist cowards
with hybrid minds.
Your antics will
mobilize the fireflies
the sun won’t smile,
never.

Poem 11

Translations of Evocations within

If the woman is the mother for time infinite
Then we are all Oedipus
At least in the matter of our eyes.
ê ê ê

If these kind of implicit norms get uprooted
From this ancient civilization
It is likely that Bharat might actually vanish
One day.
ê ê ê

Even with this realization
These eyes don’t stop copulating.
How do I deal with their voracity?
ê ê ê

I am presenting
Translations of evocations
Sans outbursts of dalit disgust.
ê ê ê

My mirror yesterday whispered tauntingly
That it’s the same in your mirrors as well.
Your mirror, it seems, said –
‘Not an issue, friend. It’s the same with
Everyone. Of course, the quality could be
A little different. But how does it matter?
All eyes are sex-starved for sure.’
ê ê ê

‘I am Bobby. Would you be
friends with me?’
Why friends, I could date you and take you to…
(Hope the censors would allow)
Infinite powers they have to
Titillate–
This one talks huskily
That one gives a come-hither look
Someone sways across
Another one dresses to kill and so on and on.
We need a censor board in every town.
ê ê ê

What’s all this man?
ê ê ê

You have also surrendered your being
To women who were looking the other way.
And too you have received silent gifts of raw wounds
Sometimes.
And you too go on bearing life like a coolie
Covering the wounds in bandages of memoryLike me.

Two adjacent poems

10.Two adjacent poems

Am on to writing autobiography, cause I
Feel like dying.
I don’t believe the palmist
Who said my lifeline was strong.
Why do I feel, someone like me should not live in this world?
Feeling this way doesn’t help. At least
Let me splash the words.
I can’t splash money: I am not moneyed.
So can’t hope to be in heaven as well.
I want rebirth, though I don’t believe in it.
So that I can write another autobiography.
I don’t like to call sorrow as sorrow,
But I can’t also dress up without it.
So it’s better to call it sorrow and then go to a movie.
Then I feel so sleepy that I happily forget all that
Happened yesterday. The next day I keep smelling
The fragrant forgetfulness.
*****
No, no. But this also doesn’t jell well.
Perhaps roam like the romantic poets admiring
Trees, woods, birds and rivers. Or paint like
Picasso. Dance, sing, sculpt, meditate.
Pretend madness, though can’t go insane
And at least pass some days.
There will be quite a bit of impact. Then
Cover it with words. To sum up, everyone
Ought to write autobiography before dying.
It’s so simple: cover that with words, which you
Locked in your mind. At least your children
Will publish it. For that at least you must father male progeny.
If not adopt everything. Like we import
Ideas, images and metaphors?
So write autobiography, because it is one’s own
Like me.