Author: nisheedhi

Here,a line between mystery
And accessibility is so blurry.

There seems no distinction
Between pathos and a farce

All you have is egg in a face
That is a pathos overheard

When they only laugh tears
As everything is such farce.

Liver has no black humor
A life has three four hours
In a liver to live its humor.

Three or more is not sure.
God is still evaluating data.
God has no yellow humor.

A virus comes on frothy
wave
And sticks to the fiber
of soul

Like pebbles on Dover
beach.
We call virus a Chinese
guest

Our history’s Chinese
traveler,
Who wrote old India
story.

We wear masks on our
words.
Mouths are mountain
passes.

City , you have two faces,
like a Janus
The face on either side of
a rail track

The incoming train divides
you in two
But the smell of morning
milk packets

And the buffaloes waiting
to be milked
On either face speak in the
same story.

Death is not innocence
With this fever rustling,

Death is guilty by poet.
Literature is innocence.

Let a cricket-clock sing
More fever , less death.

(On reading Osip Mandelstam’s poem From Stone 98)

Cricket stories abound in there.
Grass replicates the past words

The body re-thinks own stories
Physical stories mired in words.

Stories are just words of things
Under long lying stones in sun.

They are crickets creaking under
Vague stones lying in the grass.

I am mixed up with Mr. Neruda
In a deep well of other beings.

My old moon drops in the well
And my single dream upholds

A pail dropped on its stillness,
With childhood’s moon there.

We have held up love to sea
But the sea is on fire in west.

We would burn a 65% water
And dilute wet love by a fire.

Love cannot be wet all time.
Our fire is embers and glow.

Houseman ,we made a house
But we lost our tree in bough,

A balcony of hanging to tree,
For a view of milkman below.

We would lose sun in its tree
To empty sky where we fare.

( referring to A.E.Houseman’s beautiful poem Give me my land of boughs…)

We have to take the aid of poetry
for memory
With the leaves lost to sky’s white
wilderness.

The trees make bland statements
as if in a dance.
Meanings are merely extrapolated
from memory.

Memories arise from words falling
from trees.
The rising sun sending down shafts
of memory
Through a partially closed kitchen’s
exhaust vent.