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

Wednesday, January 13, 2010



I am at the balloon-man’s cart

Under the old porch of Grisham’s box

With men and women throwing out of the door

their evening-selves- the street suffocates

And young children pull the string

of my helium headed body

That is sold for a rupee!


And a strong wind forced the destitute

-the old anemic leaves, and crisp twigs,

The unsatisfied paper out off the window

It tried the dresses on the clothesline, none fitted, strewn

My face with eyes and lips still at its place

Under the weight of his nose


How should we not be hypocrites?

We dodge truth

beneath the embroidered fancies

and filigree of social strictures.