ab Khwaab ki vehshat ka koi
waqt muayyan to nahiN; ab kabhi

soz ki lazzat ka tum kar lo jawaaz;
jo koi rok sake tum ko to jhuTla

dena; kuchh kaminoN ke ta’ayyun
ka gila ker lena; ab mukammal hua

aKhbaar-e-juz, chhin chuka
himmat-e-sawaal; ab shukar hai

ke tumhe muslehatan dekha hum ne;
kaun jhuTlaae ga kis taur se hoga

ab hisaab? iss tarah Khauf hi
chillaata hai sannaaTay may.

I can speak the hymnals

I can speak the hymnals that will
point to east forged with steel
tempered with the wrist of west and

a shallow grin unmet with the acrid
smile that gloats and prepares you
for a purposeful tryst with atoms.

I can speak the hymnals that will
chime with the low as it rings the
tune of up high, each vassal a vessel

splitting the tar hair that binds him
to rock certainties affixed by hand
of sin and pain and groomed with time.

the muse seeks the bard

The muse seeks the bard as a
Child is sought; the branches

Of a restive yearn are fodder
For love; what gains in a winter

Stream comes closer in heat and
Dies a little when frost dissolves.

Only when the seeker learns
To artfully don the garb of

The sought, when the playful
Stream of luck simmers sheet

Of pain, will the chokehold
Of sighs make way for union.

You have tilted the corners of your
Eye to mark heaven’s sleight of hand, and you leave empty handed.

The far-end is dead wood, the fire
Wood that will sting while it heals, and you caress the unleavened.

The one who stands out is a prism
That throws light on the many, and you plumb the two as one.


a false prophet shall cry out from behind
the stormy drain and make me stain my

acts with rust of gain; mute then the
rage of vision as it clicks away reason

to a harried priest; slough off the kind
act of the thrushbird jostling each verb

with an ounce of rain; the dewdrop is
cancelled for lack of warmth and mist.


The bird does not befit
the glance that it gets

from foreshortening; the
dip in depth is scary as

life cannot bleed if artful
reconnaissancing reconnects

with evidence only to deem
it less worthy of aperture

Perforate the dry ash-bin, suck
The leaflet out of tomorrow’s

meandering; the gulf is left out
manned, out spanned by rusted

outlets pillaging an outrust,
an outwrought pier amidst sea.

the sweet harp of earth
harks the tug of spill

and the moss of whitened
claws sunk in mildew

heaven; create the drooping
mat with care, with the

touch of an alchemist praying
sullen to the fallen god & dust.

the dread in capturing the thill
that draws heaven to dirt is

wisdom, is hurt; the fear that
makes your heart thunder is pale

in comparison to the color of
rinsed noon, the fate of its red.


the theoliberal dust will settle in time
not before befuddling hearts, sinking

minds, coalescing goodwill into mush and
repeating mulch from a petrified storybook

few cared would matter, but it did, and it
stored dark endings as a matter of tact.

the geoliberal must settle longitudinal
accounts with the attitude of frost, and

give; give two hoots: one for the glib
necessity overtaking root of money, another

for the system of dies that are stamped
when limp currency trots out of fashion.

reaching out – 100 years hence

The song has contrived to sing beyond
a vessel of shard, of color made to form,
to reveal the brunt of a hundred years, the
lesson of foul unlearned, the grist of many
thousands unlived; yes the scent reaches
me as sure as it dissolves, reveres, speaks.

Yesterday, I picked up and skimmed Tagore once more and came across the poem below from “The Gardener”. This morning I checked the date of publication, and it is 1915! An acknowledgement was due, and so I darted off the short poem above.
Who are you, reader, reading my poems an hundred years hence?
 I cannot send you one single flower from this wealth of the
   spring, one single streak of gold from yonder clouds.
 Open your doors and look abroad.
 From your blossoming garden gather fragrant memories of the
   vanished flowers of an hundred years before.
 In the joy of your heart may you feel the living joy that sang
   one spring morning, sending its glad voice across an hundred

IV reconstitutements

the opportune time to sink the
mynah, to catch the phrase

from singing, to build the nest
that prods the shark of time

to die and die again; there is
blood, but the sea-shells have

conspired to whisper it sacred;
the scared waves will repeat.

spell thusness of a milky way,
the grasp of how a red mistake

meanders its way into the lush
parchments of a noon abandoned.

spell muskness of an introverted
thus, voting capillaries of choice

into hesitant action, and debunk.

the tarantula of wisdom goes hopping
against hope, wishing against the

loss of time and its tender mandarins,
seeking soothe in the bask of a sun

disparate with livid flames and a tender
though burning heart: wisp of thunder.

reminders of the cull will resonate
stricken streams of a humbled scream

coagulated, and there is pretence of
harm, of a deliberate wind of harm

that captures the bits of soul licking
wounds of yesterday spilling out & over.

the myth is not the fairytale

the myth is not the fairytale, though
it pretends

to catch the drift, the smoke and the
paltry guts

that flake off when dents of time speak
stilted ifs

and buts, when the theme of now occludes,
prevents power

from showing where it really comes from
from myth

“The language of Realpolitik offers a poor basis for constructing a popular consensus behind a corporate ideology. Hence modern imperialism has needed myths to legitimize itself. A policy which responds to the interests of the few but needs the support of the many must necessarily invoke a people’s sense of mission and fear.” ‘Political Culture and Foreign Policy: Notes on American Interventions in the Third World’ – The Selected Writings of Eqbal AhmadEqbal Ahmad

III word-templates

hope lies trouble-free
     lies                 perhaps
                  freedom seeks
hope      trouble         too

if you meander in the forest
       meaning               well
if you mean                  well
               in the forest does
it     mean                       anything
                  the        tree          falls?

the      ant will get in the brain of
the elephant                          - angry
the elephant will                         cry, and then                                  
                         the  rain             
             will                         dry