Until there were people

Until there were people

For a long time,
We knew
The sun moved round the earth,
Europe was the world,
With no America's birth;
Until there were people
Who proved us otherwise.

For a long time,
We thought
We could never ever fly,
Sail above, under the sea,
Cure pox, leprosy;
Until there were people
Who proved us otherwise.

For a long time,
We thought
We needed a pair of eyes to read,
A pair of ears to compose music,
Impaired will never communicate;
Until there were people
Who proved us otherwise.

For a long time,
We believed
We needed wars and borders to survive,
Soldiers to honour and sacrifice,
Power and pelf to hurt and connive;
Until there were people
Who proved us otherwise.

If only

if only

We are bordered in our prisons
Unable to move in a trance
With a soft bang on reasons
If only we're out by chance

No side

No side

In the moving home,
There is no side;
What is to your left,
Is also to our right;
The stars lie in wonder,
Never set or rise,
All moving in the hole,
Confused amused inside.

Changing images

Changing images

Zeus has forgiven Sisyphus

For divulging his secret,

For being deceitful,

For killing travellers,

And for many more sins,

His spirit now free;

Today’s Polygnotus is busy giving

The king a rest and the forever falling rock

A stable look.

Thus the world has become light…

The Thinker of Rodin

Is giving a flying kiss to the world

Not pensive any more;

Out of Louvre

La Jaconde of Vinci

Is laughing ha ha ha

Beyond apprehension and doubt

Her crowns shining bright;

And O the tired Hercules

Shouldering responsibility for so long

Has brought the world to his heart

His head resting on it

Hugging huge for good.

Leap

Leap

In light, the world divides,

Into values, norms, beliefs,

Blind system of words;

If you may permit –

Am out delighted to be in the dark

Re-positioned from pious to peace
In here words neither hit nor hurt

Endarkend with bliss

From end to end

mismatch

Competing poets

Poor industrialists

Are in peaceful war

some triplets

End devours

Table laid with values

Saliva begins

Black and white

On crossroads stop and go

Unwritten looks

Queue cumbersome..

Waiting to be digested

Grinding sounds of thoughts

Words sing litter

Sound look different

Penned reams of paper

Grandma’s pickles

Sunning on the terrace

Eyes water the tongue

Old homes in towns

Full only with parents

Children come in time

Crow craps on a head

With knots of thoughts now cleared
Handkerchief doctors

Party going on

Songs chandeliers switch off
Happy New Year

On deadline weak steps

Safety and security
Painter paints to sell

Sun in the morn

Poach on the hot table
Give a slight kick-start

a storm

a storm

A storm

Leaves are falling

Tools norms values noise

Like the wind from one end

To the other

I fleeting from me

As the receiver giver

The mind precipitates

In silence

A choice reaches out

To adorn the tree

Mr. Professor

Mr. Professor

If you are not a novice Mr. Professor

You must be an amateur.

Your words tremble for judgement,

Posed in essence to collect approval,
Signs of a doubtful beginner: an unsure debutant.
When you teach in between Heidegger and Sartre,
Try to narrate the angst and agonies
Of players from your chosen books,
There goes Oliver on the street squeezed between words,
Faking his limp to earn his lunch; hope a cake for him,
When Lucky talks gibberish,
There go the same-name leaders,
Nominated by the famously faceless us
To bring in halfwits as fillers;
But Mr. Professor these are those on whose shoulders
Writers rest: this for itself and in itself I wonder if you know.

For as long as you mind your Ps and Qs

For praises and classy awards,
For as long as you talk from the wrong side
Of the window, with words that confuse between a twilight
And a rainbow,
Mr. Professor
For as long as you picture the poverty of the characters
Of your novels, where words bled beyond words,
You wouldn’t have a clue that despite feigning as an expert,
A savant, with all appreciations notwithstanding,
Why the lines sing as a refrain before the cracking mirror.

If you are not a novice Mr. Professor

You must be an amateur.

Atmosphere

Atmosphere

Shades,
If it weren’t, would fall like the fruit;
From the tree, in the unready hands
Of the beholder and whisper its smell
In the untrained holes…say something
Appeared as meaning in the unprepared ears;
As a child in its orbit, matures.
 
Layers,
If it weren’t, would splash like foams;
After a roar, into the deaf sands
With meanings inside its folds
Hugging the unsuspecting land… moment by moment
With the same degree of opaqueness and secrecy;
As a child bit by bit, turns old.
 
Shadows,
If it weren’t, would whisper like flash;
Without a pause, into the mirror
That neither sees nor shows until it is close
The world becomes… ready trained prepared
Listens to emotions of atmosphere;
Roaring whispering lying, clear inside.