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At dawn ,we like to be surprised
To hear a sea rage like the usual

This morning we were surprised
To find a crow sitting on the rail

And a silhouette pass by the sea
Just behind old submarine’s rail.

Seems we are alive after waking
And our serotonin levels intact.

Woman outside is sweeping blue sky
Outside a curtain and her dust flying

In a piano music, just above my head
And a keyboard that orders its notes.

Everything is trapped in some thing
And now in the amber end of last line.

Crows are waking, just now
For daily sun to rise swiftly.

Lights are now switched off
For a sun to take their place.

Crows have stopped cawing
For crowds to start bustling.

We remember, every year,
This day, until years drop.

We will recall another day,
In snowy hills, on the river

When your words were ice
And a river flowed calmly.

And there is interval for us
We will meet, in twin rocks

Get to a root of argument
A banyan’s in rock crevice,

And peasant trudges past.
It is now just another day.

The Barua sea is my old sea by the stranger’s house where I had slept a night. It had a monotone that drowned my child’s fears.

The monotone kept coming through my adulthood and now that I am old I yearn for the monotone to drown my old fears.

At midnight my head hums with the old sea, it’s monotone coming on the tops of casuarinas sweeping an old sky.

Whenever I have a head cold the old sea comes and drowns all my other sounds.

Some times idle, just a stone in the lake, you look to a humming bird and a moth and the least letter of word for work. Words are humming birds of green pocket with a heart beating just behind warmth.

Others’ phrases are tiny palpitating moths that die by the firelight of your old winter leaving heaps of fluorescent wings in gaps of doorways, in balconies that precipitate to abrupt darkness of wordless mid nights.

We scoop up their fluorescence to pockets but our work lies elsewhere, in other words beating warmly in our chest of furious work. Our idleness is words working to warm light.

Please reflect how a light source casts its own shadow on the wall crawling in a lizard’s food waiting to cast its own briefest of shadows .

A lantern waved shadows in wind on the mud wall ,then something that made the sum of all its parts for a child of a night’s landscape ,a child who grew to today’s old man who carries all those emptinesses as a shadow that carries all shadows as if shadows are the only real things.

And children are still the way you were as a child, that happy and that sad, and when you think of your childhood you live it again with them, the lonely childhood, and grown-ups count for nothing.

— Rilke, Rome, December 23, 1903
Letters to a Young Poet

When I was just knee-high, the sky was just a few feet high and the sun and the moon played on the sky terrace. Grandmother was sweeping the earth with her stick broom and there was earth dust all over , on the trees and in the birds . When she wiped her brows the sky touched her elbow and she felt annoyed and pushed it away with the stick broom. Little did she know her grandsons who were the sun and the moon were playing on the sky terrace and alas they were lost for ever.

There was no point in crying about the children who moved away with the terrace , never to be seen on the earth. Besides, they are now no longer children. We say grownups count for nothing.

On the day the bomb dropped the father(of the bomb) was dawdling with a string. There were sex orgies on the precise day. Father (of the bomb, as also of the letter writer) was playing with string.

Sister-cum-mother slapped letter writer.
That is for hurting father, she said.

That is how the tendrils inter-twined.

That was Cat’s Cradle for you from the moustachioed Kurt straight from his Vone-gut.