You will not find poetry anywhere unless you bring some of it with you. Joseph Joubert

Tuesday, July 22, 2008


Some tribal blood seeped in the mass and made the genetic clock strike an age each passing year…
Some tadpole songs and cricket lyric surge like volume in the tub of moody silence
Bandaged in brown paper and threaded in soul, the lips incorporate fabric passion.
I, remember the distance of grass between our thought-shops,
And darkness creeping silently, down the edge like a spider over its prey…
And the moon with the lamp in its womb
Seated on then floor of the firmament!

He, beaded his words like a careful monger selling marbles to instant urchins
The gossamer eyes plied his wits in deliberate smoke
That crawled out like a nested woman of the pipe…
The sweat of metal that perched on the steel bars
Sung more carefully in my hands
Than the beat that pierced my ears like fossilized danglers;
His generosity nevertheless shall nest in my cage forever…

The opium seller lived in the college backyard, in the woods among the silver poppies
In a little brown cottage with mermaid skin hung all over…
He planted some wild Sargasso in his bathing tub…
And culled his designs from the imprints on a snake’s body,
(You see them many sucking wine of the quintessential poppies!)
and from … the remnants confiscated by dreams that wreathe on the bed of the sea!
With red chords in the eyes that speak of the mutiny of inner manifestations…

Emotions breed in the hem of all our skirts: few seek refuge in the fresh beam o youth,
Few metamorphose into maturity with hard and stubborn wings
Few unlearn the poetry of its birth and few camouflages in the slightest ray of moment…
And some standstill in the breath of wind
When through the gates of silk-lane, counting beans of contemplation,
He unreels his self in stories of unarmed green knightsSurrendering to one smile wrecked face, laboring to survive amidst charming cactuses!

Wednesday, July 16, 2008

the dionysian Valve

Dionysus is drunk on weeds
Upon the metro pave-way
And a string of night
Like liquid carried down
The mound of his insane lips…

The missionary frog
With the Bible
Was forking out sermons
Of little songs struggling out of Eve’s coast;
Of sinuous apples in the sunset tree
Striking aloft among the Liatris punctata.

The surge of heads and limbs
Against the wind
Nude moon rapes the pleasure of silent eyes.
Dionysus, the old surreal
With evening enjoys the caress of grass
And thus how his vessel of music
Sails him down to the land of neurosis!

The is she, the Dionysian valve;
Evolved of the silver strained unicorns,
The evangelical Race
in lenient flesh and sublime face
melting in the infernal eyes

There she- the sunset tree
Amidst the aromatic herbs
Where songs for old Dionysus hurl out of her coast…
With the mast of her breasts;

awaits to be piously molested by the
rage of the sea carved horses;

Dionysus, you are drunk on weeds,
And now the Clouds too,
drunk on liters of miracles;
your maid, Race has cheated on you…
Now Clouds would claim your little songs,

the fruits of your sinuous Race!

Wednesday, July 2, 2008

A wish.

I pray to Jesus to reincarnate my soul into this tiny-wonder after the present chapter is over!

The Poet.Tree that speaks in verses!