Death of poetry

It begins with knowing,
And knowing too much;
like going to a school
And then a college,
Reading thick books
And talking about writing all the time.

But I don’t know if people talk
Of this disease
that poets endure
somewhere in the mid-fifties,
where every word, every word
seems like a suave hand shake,
And you stop playing dirty
And disgusting; mining and drilling
Making larger and larger empty holes.

It seems.
You know.
Where to talk
How to talk
Where a comma begins,
And your career ends.

It all is numbers;
A bigger scare than your fifth grade maths teacher
You slip into your pajamas, listen to lullaby
And sleep at 9. While she knocks and knocks
Until her hand fades away.

You wake up to find
An old memory
Of knocking and you think it was fucking
You strip them naked, parade them and
Make clowns, set up tents, and a whole fucking
Circus town.

“Something is amiss”
You say
And you continue sleeping
Until you fall dead.


Closing ceremony

How do you close books

that were never opened?

How do you shut doors

where light never fell?


In the sweet breath of summer

Sweat toiling down my spines-

i see,

A smell, a garden.


Swift moving wheels

like our nimbler hands

wielding worlds through words,

a smoke arises.


Sun arises in the east

and brings death to summer,

bringing out the silver shine

of a Moon gloating.


Solitary. Alone. Four-walled

death in cage of conspicuous memories.


While the leaf

drifts apart

the tree awaits.



Rhythm. They sing. We write.

Why do they sing, Why do they write, Why do they live!

The caverns carved inside my body

Craves for food and I despise my lunch

For a  Regret for every happy smile

I fumble all over pages and over internet

To look for lives I could imitate

And then i rushed to the library

In between brown and shiny shelves

Hid those torn bundle of pages; held together by gum

They were supposed to blow life into my hollow halloween

When I read and re-read

I found it was another world

There was nothing Indian about it.

I felt pain. Betrayal and Deceit.

I tried fit in those words

I could not. i squished and crushed myself

I experienced joy in immense pain

Still my mould was casting a different figure

I began to read

Sit under tree shades

Eat large slices of mangoes

On hot summers along with long and large tumblers

Of refreshing drink ,gulping down the throat

Spilling some on the edges and wiping with my white T-shirt

Until the sun could be seen behind the misty mountains.