Changing the world

Changing the world one axiom at a time, one
Axiom offered at the altar of the sages who

Have pounced on Zeno, pounced too on
Pythagoras, for having enunciated truths

That have nothing do with fact, the horror
Of horrors, the sacrilege of ignoring data.

Changing the world elliptically as prescribed
In the constitution of the repetitive again

And agains swerving the elliptical orbit to
Move onto its center, gravitating left to the

Right of center, to prove once again in its
Againness the repetitiveness of the curvature.

Changing the world one hypothesis at a time,
Undoing one misrepresentation or better yet

Supplanting a suppler more pliable more viable
Representation in its stead, at a time. And giving

Vent, breathing room, walkable-in-a-dangly-sort-
of-a-way space, one cubit of space-time at a time.


The river and the law

The river meanders through the now
On to tomorrows all the while silting
The past onto its bed, revisiting it.

Deeds and land and titles and contracts
Circumscribe the river’s ownership, and
Peg its worth to the whim of the marketeer.

Blood and rage and tears tear through
The fabric of power eking out cries, cries
Older than power, and as old as sin.

Machinations of modernity confound deed
With law and the harvesting of seed with
Reflections on dead leaves and stolen tales.

Silence at the root of the river bed
Listens to the wind, to the chirp of
A wayward bird, to the mountain, still.

I Am The River – Documentary on the New Zealand Maori on aljazeera.com


V moments

The bar is raised
High enough to be referred to as high
And then its measurements revised.
When the doodles lap up all meaning
Inherent in the skyline, the giggles are
Gaggled, the sun dust is brushed aside by the wind.
In this air of declaration, of declension, of  
Descendency, of defamation, you declare,
Pretend to descend in mock defamation.
The high bar is in need of constant re-
Measuring as the demands of the skyline
Seem to have changed along with the doodles in the sky.
Sun dust makes cloud like formations, so are
The clouds, the functioning of clouds, the mechanical
Logistics of clouds, obviated in any way, in any sense?


I have spoken of this night as private

I have spoken of this night as private
As a windfall of slick residues of black

Treating solitude with the care of a child
Doing her rounds in the everyday in the

Everysome corners that shy not, retire not
From daylight, and breathe in the remnants

Of day left over after five thousand years
Of night. I have spoken of this night as private.


marginally human

What emerges is a fine line between the hither and
The thither, the crack that furnishes future with titbits

Of past aghast with possibility, torpid with shame,
Whetting an appetite forsworn to be satiated only

With torn flesh at the altar of modernity stripped of
All pretensions of what it is to be minimally human.


Sense of history

Sense of history is impaled upon the rootless.
Dark moments clarifying supine tendencies
Stalking half-lives, dread-sores, mean-leftovers.
Hence the livid revision, hence the crafting of
Facts and repetition repetition repetition.


gharonday ki Khaaki

jo gharonday ki Khaaki ki taraf maail ho kar
jo sa’ubat ke muN moRne se Ghaafil ho kar

jo falak teen honay pe do chaar agar ho jaae
jo Khabar dard ki sunnay se bekaar ho jaae

jo zabeehat ki faraawaani se ghayal ho kar
jo qabaahat ki zabardasti ka qaail ho kar

jo himaqat ke baRhnay ka Ghum kho beThay
jo shikayat ke thamnay ka zaKhm ro beThay

jo zara der may raat ke sunnaTay ke sunnaTay may
jo baRay shauq se ghabraae shub-e-ghabrahaT se.


The tumult

There is the tumult and then there is the tide
Tide brings the source of silt along with the grit
Of foam of salt of earth of form of lost invocations.

There is the tumult and there there is the smoke
Smoke which wraps the heart of courage in billets
Of grass of dust of moist earth venting off time.

There is the tumult and then there is the wit
Wit that pokes the mill pokes the shadow pokes
The effervescence at three different shades of noon.



jub pahaaR ke peeChe heek ho mauj-e-toofaN ki
jub neend rooh-e-sehr ki KhwahaaN ho raat bhar

to mazaar-e-be-bunyaad se pheNkay huay kuCh
tukRoN se utna hee mustafeed hoga bhaNwraa

ke jitni gehraai ka haamil hai waaiz ki bachkana
laffaazi. jub neend rooh-e-sehr ki KhwahaaN ho

raat bhar to pahaaR ki soch mauj-e-toofaN ke
siwa aur kaheeN na bhaTke gi. aur jub waaiz

ki laffazi-e-be-bunyaad ka pol khul hi chuka hai
to aql ka taqaaza yehi he ke boseeda lashoN ke

Dher me usay bhi baRi nafaasat baRay ehtamaam
ke saath ik bachkaana kafan may gaaR diya jaae.


shirk aur tum

wajah be wajah, tum hum Dug-mug, Dug-mug
tarah be tarah, hum tum, rah guzar aur shaam

maza be maza, Khauf-o-Khatr, yahaaN aur yahaaN
matlab bila uzr, ma’ani bila Khauf-o-jabr, wahaaN

qatra ba qatra, silsala-e-nashr, yuNheeN juNhee
lafz be harf, iss taraf aik shaam aur rah guzar

maiN aur mera merapun, subh-e-kerb, dukh bila husn
dukh bila huzn, rah guzar shaam ki tarah Dug-mug

ab aur aik shaam jis rah guzar ki taraf gaamzan
nahiN aur nahiN, kub talak sirf shirk aur tum?