this new vista

“But the native intellectual who wishes to create an authentic work of art must realize that the truths of a nation are in the first place its realities. He must go on until he has found the seething pot out of which the learning of the future will emerge.” Frantz Fanon, “The Wretched of the Earth”.

this new vista, a gradual
leaflet of sky, the rune

of an antiquity resigned
to seed the fringes of an

ticipation: the grunge and
dung of it, the hapless

beat of song’s tyranny cap
tured in this visitation.

an eye from a stalk

(note: if you are viewing this using the WP reader, the slideshow is hidden.)

The bereft draft of a 
    drop of wet sky will tell you
    tales from a vivid north
    and it will speak the eastern vale.

When talking with clouds, listen
    to the raven wanting to
    claim attention to some space
    and a little time.

The card of a small wall of
    thistle bridges the world;
    another world opens up in
    an eye, from a stalk.

The throwback to an ancient necessity
is green; the wander of an eye’s
lowering of curvature is its shell
of calm, and the quickening of
the quill is its fire.

Mountain smoke gathers an
hour past the file of
germs that woo the word that
spell that glue that binds the
bell that rings the mountain quick.

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

The weather stream jostles
for day in the event that
the cry for river bends
a knot, a vine, a chirp
away from depth.

Silence is the growth of a chirp, and
the tweet will whistle the
hum of the stream that brushes
past my gush of hurt, a century
of whistle.

Some rope withstands the
feel of the heart strand;
where is the kind
truth that settles my binary drums?

The valor of a purple stir is
a call to my ocean of thorns of
a valley that stirs the moan,
that fills the ink of rhythm.

Beyond the ken of power, the
    flow of the morning thrush
    is green is present is
    there willing, combing
    the steady remnants of day.

The reach of gold and
    sand that cusps the
    thread of my warm grasp
    of this broken bit of
    nuance, red with worry.

Wound up in stark volumes
    that gear up strands of
    dearness and tearing the
    filament of an unborn thought
    perpendicular to the blue veil.

(Naran and Ayubia; mid-June 2015)

atomic silence

Where is the long laugh, the
Final trip,

The soul that wills you to
Matter? Where

Is the grip that yields, the
Bark that

Shucks the corner of an infinity – the round curse of an algebra premised on reams of atomic silence?

Leak not the withered page
Any further than

What your idea of verse can
Hold on paper;

The thin outcome of mediated

Are wanton, wont to mishappennings – there is this dot of the known that grows in atomic silence.

An adverbial opposition to

The leaf of a haphazard noon;
The break in

Prosodical metricals to brown
The toast of

Evening with a nonsense grin – the void speaking vowels speaking lies of atomic silence.

An occluded littleness

The pattern of dawn is
    damp, its window sill

Went looking for the lock
    that clamps your whistle.

The brief reminder that you,
    I and the tamarinds

Are galloping a rhinoceros
    breath, a singe, a vote.

The sill of dawn is cracked
    with the skill of the

Numerographer; the bate of
    your breath is wile,

Is reminiscent, and is a
    styled shade of indigo.

An eye to wind, an
    eye to the waft

Of wind, to the gulf
    I dare to bind 

With words, with verse;
    no gateway owned.

The false pin distends
    an articulate poesy,

An occluded littleness
    wanting to rub soot

In its eyes, waiting for
    an expired license

To walk on ice, to feel
    the rise of the blue.

the dog of contention

When friends have gone to
Die, the pallid sun burns

Their teeth, and a hyena
Crowns the fist of maul.

Look back now, or not;
Does it matter that you


I have not evinced the dog
Of contention, the stone

That drags each mouthful of
Venison and artful melody

Toothed in arch sentiment
Of hard phalanges, trite


astride with bare filaments of
a toothed

day, alit with the mother of
earth, a

slit tooth, a blip away from

a ship away, aghast, aplombed
with fray.


I held the possibilities of the ancient as sacrosanct, and they lied.
bent the rules of time that
catch fire when upheld by
law, yet they lied. I spent
                            days and evenings and lanterns on unlit
                            pathways that spoke of an ancient rhyme,
yes they lied.

the urchin’s eyes


Lest the banalities &
         the trivia

Consume the core of a

Being, eke a lovetorn
         splice out

Of the urchin's eyes-

Shades of thought missed out
By the glare of high noon;

Are you care or the argument
For care? Shades of noon are

Repentant for the sun is too
High and the moist drip of

Dew low; are you fear or the
Remembrance of fear? Or law?

The rap on your knuckle is
a father’s village, it is

Counted down as you visit
The ladder of town, and you

Ring the neighbor’s palace
To see if anyone can drown.