pouch poetry

hereunder is served some poetry pouches full of love, dear reader, stir them as you like, if you wish you may crack them to pour into mouth, you may smear them on your body or you may sprinkle them on the ground and then chant the name of god with love and enjoyment



1.

the simplicity that rolls down

from the body of the sweet-meat

made by my mother



let it brings light

to our radish-red love-story



to hear or to notice

love

does not need

putting an ear on the wall

of the wall-street journal



the bottle could be filled

from the voice



when you go to fill the bottle

you would see that everywhere

the arrangement of picnic is ready



when i want to take part in that feast

my neighbours would drive me towards

the home 



although i’ve spent all my life

running behind the love



2.

who’s won the muddy-battle

was yesterday’s politics



my addiction is actually to cater

the pouch of love

to develop all vitamins

and all bathrooms



people say you don’t love

the claps of the rats



yet i’ll come down

from the branch of a guava-tree

as a wave-of-shopping-mall

to the lake of your love



now i’ll jump out

from this computer screen

to register a kiss

on your lips



don't miss to applaud

by clapping the hands





3.

the heart is half-sunk

in the window



to some extent

in the lipstick too



on the dinner-plate

there is the feelings of the lord



that means

i’ve to be burnt more

i do agree



i would become

the sculpture of khajuraho



this happenings may have been

the right search for love



on either-side of which 

a green is being worked out

by the nostalgic-cycle



whose colour-texture is very much harappa

which has too many geometric-memories



4.

an undertone is speaking

from within the solitude



now i’m in very much

distress



or i’m in love



i don’t know my love is what-for

may be that’s an arrangement only



so easily are those interactions

stitched with words



strenuous or effortless

in flight

initiated

with seclusion



but when in the sinking of the playfulness

i  write the games of the street-charmers





the birds again and again

pierce the archery



thus becoming ashes

through travelling



in time-gaps still

the audacity to compose poems

on you



5.

is it true love

or i do take it granted

that i’m in love



or i do love to think

that i’m loving



and there is

neither any welcome address

nor any opening song

in my love



my experience with heat of fire

and with burning pain

in the flames of water

is nothing less



6.

in course of burning

i look around



the chilly-plant  in the tob

planted in my won-hand

producing green-chillies



oh-ho how sweet they are



it is no chilled-body

that has earned

my life or death



no remarkable mark

is endorsed

on the lotus-leaf



now easily some words

can be written

on you



i don’t know whether

those would be at all

some lines of a poem





7

someone falls in loves

someone makes love

love comes to some another



there is the far-off

whispering



at first she constructs me

then destroys rightly



i notice her

for the first time in six weeks 



the love

that writes

in the footnote of the tennis-ball

a desperate struggle for existence



within our skull

there is the love



or the midnight of the orion



the little squirrel asked now

are you in your seventies

or eighties



those houses with the coating of

the sky the air the light-and-shade

provide me with the presentation of

a wig and

a set of artificial teeth

8.

the love

that touches the hand

in drizzling



the love

that gets lost in the brandishing

grasses



would they want to inform

that the flowers don’t have any skyscraper



in the layers of the flesh and blood

of the detergents

as if  a whole human civilisation has been suffering

from suppressed pain



within it with the dry spell of

anger and cough

the time



had there been no feeding from the love

does the human civilisation stagger



9.

do you think those words

or it’s myself



whatever may you say now

i’ll travel within a great death

to die



rather after my demise i may tell

i’ve informed everyone …look



beneath the large evergreen flower tree

the game of light and shadow continues



beside those simple households

besides a high-head mobile-tower

what else would you like to be



is it a bath in the ganga-river is it a leaf

of the water-lily or it’s a king-cobra 

tell me



i would now make love

with that idea from you



10.

the  apparent golden pot that i thought

to be the underneath of a kadam-tree



in the dim light i can notice that

the stars in the sky are disappearing 



this session of poetry

is coming to an end



now where would i

go



to that little home



the home

a tiny word of 4 letters



within that home

the children are giggling

playing … and making funs



when i entered

with a tri-cycle in hand

for them



i have been perplexed

many old persons are waiting there

to shake hands with me



10.

almost most of my desires 

are very much hurt



to show it publicly

i wrap bandages

around all over my body



i keep on the stage-drama 



in our programme of reading poetry

tea is served twice

current has gone off for three times

for four times the mobiles ring



to pick up love 

some people think about returning back

from today’s dais to the ancient stage

of performing folk-drama



then they are also sympathetic

to my sufferings



12.

everyday

on my way to return home from the school

when my mom took hold of my hands



i could see in my body

the dancing of an unforgettable

aura



even now that mystical halo is walking

on the leaves of the trees

to fulfil my mornings



that wayfaring along the road

is ringing far and far-off



thus taking bath in every day’s 

dust smoke hue and cry



many such love

gradually gets aged



is it true

in the long run

i too

would be the ingredient

of a fairy-tale



just because i love

that paddy field



some time later

she will also become

human



13.

then she will make all of us 

join her walking



those inmost feeling

those memories meditations



the loneliness  and solitude…



sans the touch of the imagination of

a crater…

a creator…



this blunder…

this socially outcast white …



this type of uneven…

and irrelevance…



sume words

when peep in the mind

i surprise to see that

it’s ten to 2 at night



then in the balcony

my father is crying



he always notices some grave-yard men

in front of him



and sheds tears 



14.

after the dry leaves of the winter

fall in innumerable drops

the spring comes



the cover-face of spring means

a note-book of the rain-tree

letting float in the sun-water



and mr harry says that

this question of change

is a major pull



because all the unreal talks

you are delivering one by one



to keep pace with it

the ambulance comes at 10am

with a stale dead-body



in it’s shirt

is written the spelling of myself



i then sat on the grey volume

of the college-campus



in the front

a beggar from the war of waterloo

is passing by



over the dust of myself

with a faster pace

blowing is the thoughts of



ataraxia 

in the air… and air… and air…

   



15.



if your wishes colour silver

then do return back to the x-mass dancing

of the autumn



sound of whose far-off hoof-steps

digging so much soil of

story-weeds



i went into the nail-polish

with the proof of tea-cup

in my hand



there in the midst of lot of snow-flakes

and in the bed soft with the light of the candle

is now that honey-name more tarnished



now the atomic-howling

does not follow the rules of nature



so the rain-tree that seeks a-field-more-sky

with the hope to become king after the sun-rise



so that king is now waiting

in the grocer’s shop

at a stretch  for an hour



16.

does her well-wisher esse then thinks

to escape from the love-making whirl-wind



on the dry branches of the axis power

the new generation of the birds



rather stop a while there silently and listen

which song is hidden in the bronze-buddha



or in the school of the terracotta-horse



i’m now opening the coating

of the night-enamel to read this home



and behind the coo of dove

is smiling



the god of the penalty-kick



17.

sitting on an orange-coloured balcony

in an outsider lane

the green is writing poems

 

better than the face-powder



from this side all long the famine

i’m the priest of the

agro-based civilisation



still-then i think

why so much light of partiality

is on the body of the chrysanthemum



within the monsoon

in collusion with the  hair-band

now thousands of birds are born 



they can hear my

dry straws and twigs



whose hearing is the police

in so depth of the forest



don’t move the

dreadful resorts



one such photograph of the girls

who wakes up in the midnight



speechless…

unmindful …

destruction…



that is you now



i’m then in the spore

of the perfume-bounded body

of match-making



18.



who has lied in the box

made up of the temperature

of god



all on a sudden

there is a hue and cry

in the abdomen of the time

wearing a dirty pajama



actually that has been filtered up

from the voices of rock-songs



the roaming

of a fatigued traveller …



the lies

within their wishes

write my existence



and then run

to buy vegetables

from the station-market



so many lay-offs

come to the body of paper-weight



to listen to all those

is not improper



walking through the traffic-jam

gradually

this home becomes solely my home



one day the golden of

human



then it is i

who is you



and walking through the

monsoon



on either side of the field

it is all autumn



19.

when borrowing the religion of

the night-queen 

i fall in love



then is it real

that our mangos and jack-fruits 

can make the perfumed-soap

vigorously from the light of the

blood-line



i count the bells of the churches

ringing repeatedly



and piercing the image

of your prominent face



rounding through lots of old

the love becomes exhausted



and the love comes back

in the form of college-classes



there are you myself

and so many notes

of the body