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Unhappy man has to swat a fly
And to brush its buzzing wing.
I wonder why he is not like me

And leave me alone on mango
A happy fly with song on wing.
I am happy fly if I live or if I die.

(after William Blake’s poem The Fly)

Sea waves are day’s quickest at stone.
It is the white foam where they splash.

The stones are amber as in the dream.
These stones shore us up against time.

These stones are poem against waves.
A sky becomes cerulian poem at dawn.

Right at my waking, the eye drops,
At the thirteen ways of blackbird

Like white explorer poet is dense
Inside undergrowth of a blackbird,

Preoccupied by his thirteenth way,
Not just number in the last supper

Just being dense about blackbird!
Why thirteen ? do not you ask me.

(Reading a poem “Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird” by Wallace Stevens)

The uncles are on park green bench,
Deep into macro level human affairs.

Little fingers, they had held on tight
For years are beyond the green sea

Practicing greenbacks ,stirring green
Envy In neighbors, not green-carded.

Uncles have a right to the big picture.
Grass is green on this side of the sea.

Pots hid family’s ties of love and bond.
They also hid deaths in between them,

When a Big potter lovingly broke them.
The pots had some inexplicable cracks.

It may be village sun who warms earth
A little too much and cracks pots open.

It was just pussy cat’s fur.
Big stalk was not this time.

Now it was harmless purr.
Stalking would come back

The next time both for you
And cat in darkness corner.

(Remembering Charles Buckowski’s poem 1990 special)

The fish had no feelings left
After they had been sucked

Into the machine of the ship
And now emptied into a sea.

Nature had feeling for them,
As death’s kind smell struck.

It was in a cloud hung heavy,
Like the mournful cathedral.

Pigeons making love in stairwell
Are our neighbors this side down.

We love neighbors or all of them
Marked fragile and/or this side up.

Breakage is common this side up.
A neighbour sea froths at mouth.

Our bodies are fragile this side up,
Living in harmony with neighbors.

There is death on television
And a song is buried ,sitting

After protein speck claimed
Victory on music in the lung.

Shadows held their breaths
As dirt poured on life’s song

And ghosts walked in them,
In a fog on the windowpane.

The fish stayed nonchalant
Making no noise of a living.

White flowers have already broken out
On the wire mesh as though they were

My bath-wet clothes hanging in the sun.
I look out of parapet for parijat dropping

Its flowers,with heads down and feet up.
Looks like, the world has already begun.