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

Wednesday, March 25, 2009

In Love

My thoughts for you are timid, stray;
in the moods of lily,
in the beam of setting sun sunk in water.
A fleet of finches shouting in my nerves
love is the birth of struggle
your hands in pocket renders comfort
to my hands without touch
your eyes invites me to the vision you see
your fort against the stream of wisdom besiege me
I want you, I want you, I want you
The nerves are kicking me
You blow me off like autumn-leaf
Your blow is a kiss to me.
You knead me, you bake me, you burn me
You make a woman of me.

In the twilight bed of evening
You enter in me like a poet
With language of the mollusks and savage;
You act like a chapel chorus, loud and tender.
Swift, mild, treacherous
You haunt me like a red-wood musk-deer
Maples and acer
Red wine and you
I want you, I want you, I want you
I want you with the alpine moon
broken hut and blackness,
Your poetry shall call
the woman of me…
shall deflower my silence…

Wednesday, March 18, 2009


have no face
to wear for subservience
No fire ever singed
their emotions
for crocs
What is tear is particle water.

Breathing leaves

know no trade
fickle emotions gather
no intellect
how much for a limb
of mine and moon
Bubbles need
to buy passion

Toed wheels

have forgotten
their tongue of vowels.
Breathing is just a mechanism
that provokes lust
for machines
and mayflies.

A Letter to Sylvia

To, Sylvia
Sylvia Plath:

Sylvia, the grass that has grown on your
white flesh can see the stars and moon
battling for peace that bereft you.
Sylvia, the cells of music comply with the anxiety
that killed you every fraction of belief and disbelief.
Sylvia, the hues of your heart pursued you to

heaven and there are no colours left for us…
Sylvia it was your painting that breathed
Gas and along with you dispersed like pollens
in the air.

Sylvia, poetry is alone; words cannot walk

through the narrow caverns of mind. Solitude is

cold and constricts senses to bloom.
With you Sylvia, metaphors were meaningful.
You pronounce myth
And legend is born.
With you Sylvia, with you
A woman is reborn!

Yours faithfully

Tuesday, March 17, 2009


the bones played
the winter never lost before
but he made us win
we, played tic-tac-toe

The candle stopped breathing
and breeze stole the beads
played it all over
beneath the bed-stand
the bones played