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Morning was a spring that had come as a surprise to the old man in autumn. In a vernal surprise , the leaves turn light green with nipple sized mangoes on spring trees .A man gets up to go, his towel slung on his right shoulder. A woman hangs out the balcony like a wet cloth drying in spring sun. The old man forgot all about his winter.

Spring is his surprise.

* Old man’s winter
Old man’s winter is forgetful like gorgeous snow . It smothers the recently visited spring still in the heights of the pines . A mere mosquito can make so much of difference .

It is one long winter broken by occasional spring, a few old Apple blossoms tentatively promising fruit by October .But fruit may not come in this kind of snow.

A mosquito can bring dengue to woman .Bitten by mosquito she may not come back for the next spring .

* Dengue death is no-frills death
As a word dengue sounds swift and businesslike.True to its word, it does not take much time to die of dengue even if you are not at an eminenently die-able age.

When you say dengue, you almost sound professional .When you say so-and-so has died of dengue you sound convincing . You know it is a no-frills death .

Dogged followers

The cracked smiling rock is opposite .A man sits in there on a plastic chair ,in a morning silhouette. Stillness rules except to listen intently to a hollow dog’s bark. I am on foundation 2.

The sun is bright in the trees. A dove is cooing relentlessly . This is the nesting season.

Two puppies were trying to make friends with me. One of them rose on its hind legs to sniff its wet nose on my elbow. I chee-chheed it. Otherwise it would follow me all the way to my apartment till I quickly get into the lift leaving it behind. That is the only way of shedding a dogged follower.

In the temple

The pipal gently waves its shadows. The priest gives Gods water in your cupped palm and touches your head with His feet.

Women are getting ready for practice lessons for the harvest dance. They will dance in circles beating each others sticks with rhythm.

Birthday

A little girl prances around while others play games and turn jokers .They gawk, they chat old times and watch kids blow balloons. They are waiting for dinner . Their own balloons were getting bigger .

Little Adhya had turned one year of age.

The morning after:

The morning is grey. Early , I could only think of star pointings on a prior night .Their milk spilled on skyways. Yesterday it was a banyan that made us less sad. That was morning.

In the evening we heard somebody in a far off town had crossed the road. He was crossing the river of death . In the night it was a joyous celebration of birth.

The dove in my balcony
The dove makes an occasional visitation in the balcony. It’s coos were like the days of childhood, long and thoughtful. If only it stays away from the electric fan whirring in my balcony.

The dove makes an unsuccessful attempt at nest making under my air conditioning unit.

Pigeons in the skylight

A pair of pigeons have made a home in my skylight . They were threatening to enter the kitchen but the new exhaust fan effectively prevented them.

Their romance took place over an entire week but now is their nest making. They are blocking a diagonal shaft of sunlight with the little worms of dust crawling in it .

Twigs and home

The male one seems to be bringing twigs to the skylight of the God room. For nest building. The female is morning sick. We are worried the twigs will topple over and fall on our gods.

But we will miss the golden shaft from a winter sun. And the dust swirling in it as our maid sweeps the dining hall.

We are worried for our gods who will be covered in sticks .We have decided to close the hole partly.

The banyan makes us less sad
The banyan is still and its leaf falls make soft landings on the road. In the distance dogs are barking their joint sadness .

A helicopter is coming in a crescendo of sound . It will soon disappear in the sky.

I hear a titi bird in the sky tweeting its sadness.

The banyan makes us less sad.

Titi bird

The bird would cry ” titi” in the very sky sending waves of fear down our childish bodies. Titi meant ‘take away ‘ .Take away was bird call to take away life.

It would mean our life or some one close to us. Our young cousin had died recently after this very bird’s call.

Dust in the end line

Winter breeze is pleasant ,the sun still behind clouds. A blue shack in the ground comes to view . A closer view may yield a rich picture celebrating mono -colour.

Early on ,a bored bard ,bare-headed and bearded , came to poetry from the vintage pages of memory . That time of year. Thou mayst in me behold…. Dust would come later in the endline.

We always eat dust in the endline.

Dreaming winter

Dylan’s dream of winter had been snowed under for seventy long years. Since then a half a moon was found looking in windows of poets in their winters.

 On the green bench  of the park we are dreaming of  the snow hills of March 2016  . By then winter will have been snowed under. There will be apples in  bloom and pines in needles. Perhaps there will be poplars waving to a passing breeze.

There will be apple cheeked girls and silky horses  in  meadows. There will be heavily furred dog coats. Russet coloured rusts on old bridges.

 Here old men in their winters are agitated over a boy not hanging. He is not hanging because while he had  brutalised and raped, he was still under 18.

Thoughts from the green bench and before

The patch before the green bench is less wet. I will not dig my feet deep in it. The neighbour bench is empty.

Poem was about  spaces between words, how they build our nothings in a zero hood of bodies, a pie approximate in truth. How the pie is not truth but is approximate Beauty which is not the same thing as Truth. A pie chart for showing zero hood against infinity.

 You talked of hooded hordes swarming a waste land. We thought about the hooded man present in Ravi Verma painting of a crow stealing a jewel of the bathing princess. Was he God? Or the death God who is our shadow?

 What is the tiger doing with us in our boat? If truth is divided by zero, does it tend to infinity? 

 (recalling the beautiful movie “Life of a Pie”)

Death is our friend shadow

Before the father passed he would tell son not leave the pigtailed boy that always went with him wherever. That was a friendly shadow. He would go only where you went and when.

Wherever he went he chanted verses about impermanence of body. When he chanted his pigtail quivered. The friend shadow’s too.

Benched

Some times we are just “benched” as in software firms ,in between orders. A green bench is for a review and the language of our thought.  We are awaiting chair.

Before the green bench is slush made by a long  snake of a garden hose. I dig my footprints in it.

In the midnight it was a neighbour’s invisible house crying to be recognised for its existence. Its existence is empty air and shadows of  its inmates’ shouts across the vastness of time.

Six months later it would be house again ,its history of men and their  empty air restored. During the interim it will be a ghost standing on  a skylike emptiness.

The  house is just benched.

Snakes and carrots

New experience standing in the market with the vendors shouts over your head along with evening mosquitoes .

The carrots lie listless in the jute bag. There are no takers. There are snake gourds in the neighbour jute bags . Some of them have their necks broken to keep them contained. For no fault of them. Where they were on the farm they were hanging free ,waving to a passing breeze.

Vegetable shouts

New experience standing in the market with the vendors shouts over your head along with evening mosquitoes .

The carrots lie listless in the jute bag. There are no takers. There are snake gourds in the neighbor jute bags . Some of them have their necks broken to keep them contained. For no fault of them. Where they were on the farm they were hanging free ,waving to a passing breeze.

Traffic farts

Night was when I came upon city’s traffic . The whole of traffic  thought the other was traffic. Nobody knows where the farts originated,where they turned aggregates. Everybody  would curse  others  in the aggregate. Traffic is aggregate you can curse under your breath. Traffic curses you from its breath. All curses are in the aggregate but they stink like traffic farts.

 Traffic takes your breath away. Traffic is dead sea where everything floats and nothing sinks. Traffic is a sea of steel and paint, a dragon with a butt end of smoke. Traffic does not snort dragon fires from the front but farts dark smoke into your face.

Eloquence

The sun has yet to ripen in the tree’s hair. All is quiet except for the crunch of a walkers feet in the sand. The saree rag now hardly stirs, its baby memories now elsewhere, with its mother carrying bricks on her head probably on another construction site .

A bone dry puppy is scrounging around for food. Returning ,there was entire dog family of mother with four puppies following .The canines are an extension of the night.

The morning was about a grandiloquence, thawing a numb winter. The words were a lot of sound and their fury sounded our nights. You opened window to a dog’s bark, a lower language at midnight curve. Window is half way to the horizon.

The words ring in the hollow of our bones while winter is raging in them. Soon they will be dumb by a night.

The banyan leaf

 A gentle winter breeze is closing and our shadows are long and  warm by a new sun. The sun is soft on the leaves.

Time’s winged chariot is hurrying near and the coy mistress is still looking for rubies by the Indian Ganges. God knows when she will be less coy, as Andrew marvels.

 The banyan leaf fall drags on the road like a winged chariot behind us. Child Vishnu is fast asleep on  banyan leaf,cradled by the wind.

The banyan makes us feel less sad.

The titi bird

The sadness of titi bird is felt less when we look through the banyan leaf spaces ,where child Vishnu is sleeping ,cradled by a wind.

The banyan always makes us feel less sad.

Shanta, my cousin

My vivid memory of Shanta was a twelve year old giggling girl whose family used to visit us in Berhampur every summer. As a strapping seventeen years old pimply boy, I had this vague dream to give her a bicycle ride on my back seat but taking our relative sizes in account I could not figure out how.

After a long hiatus I would meet her in her Delhi home in 2005 or so ,with potential to turn a hoary grandma if only she could find a suitable boy for her lookalike daughter. She would,later find a handsome geek boy. With ghee shakkar in her mouth , she is now telling grandma stories with happy endings.

White shroud

Waiting for my turn in the barbers shop I sit here with a heap of  newspapers .Film songs on the wall danced on funny torsos. A guy is having his head shorn and a chin with a brushwood of two days. Chin makes small talk. I have to wait for it to vacate the chair.

The barber will cover me in his white shroud. He will make me fidget like a corpse. His indecent stomach will rub my fidgeting insides. My hair is summer bush to fall off in  silver clusters on the white cloth.

The barber’s fingers  are dancing on the brushwood  head. The head closes its eyes in pleasure. Its hair is strewn all over the marble  floor like knots of darkness.

A poem a night

The weather is mild winter on its way to meet summer. Two girls are doing their clockwise rounds ,their pigtails dingdong on blouse backs. Old film songs are waking pant pockets.

This morning we read Ashbery. From all corners come distinctive offerings. From old men’s chairs, going and gone. From the mountains sitting on horizons. From the corners of balconies with their clothes dripping.

There are corners to our throats. Their poems go on . A daily poem from a night’s stack. Till none is left in the pile.

The accident of birth

A cloudy morning. A bald man was heard chanting mantras under his cold  breath in the neighbour bench. I see he has now  finished his prayers and left.

Morning was about a fatal accident. Like the ORR accidents where a  drunk steel meets a sleeping road median. A scholar boy who took his life by an electric fan called his birth a fatal accident.  He only wanted to see his stars from the Center of  Sagan’s tiny dot. The stars  are themselves accidents, from being bits of hot air .

His death was an accident resulting from his birth. Birth is accident from lonely nights. A fatal accident because death is its direct outcome. Lonely nights are accidents by man and woman, who themselves are  born accidents .Like drunk  steel and sleeping road median.

Everything is so random. Why blame a midwife who is  just a proximate cause.

*Outer Ring Road in Hyderabad

Grass poems

This morning we chanced upon Frost’s grass poem. It was about his mowing. The poet is a grass cutter . There were poems of all kinds. There were grass poems.

We saw our own grass in the Himalayan slopes where  woman’s grass rose so high it seemed like hill grass. Woman is  green in memory like the grass on her head.

In the snow hills was white frost. In the city square there were people in long overcoats  and they moved an invisible fog. They were shadows in the long sun.

* Apples are grass
This time when went to the snow hills the women had grass on their backs. The grass reached up to the sky, all the way from their boots. We were promised we would see Apple women if we came in October.

Now the apple trees are dancing stubs. They will sprout leaves and start flowering by June and there will be fruit on them by November. The women’s backs will ache under ripe red apples. Their cheeks will glow like fresh red apples. Their husbands will smell their Apple smell ,instead of grass.

* Ah ,No
On the green bench someone is already sitting .Now I am on another under the green neem tree. Kids are on their green swings discussing school politics. A man in green lungi is dancing his limbs to perfection.

Morning we thought of a stern Thomas whose Ah ,No comes every sixth line . Wind and rain come too quickly and too often.

Like hei ho in Kurt’s slipstick.

A ballad has to have a refrain and in any case happiness is episodic in character in a general drama of pain. That was what the Mayor said in his novel.

Ah, no.

* Thomas who?
Thomas Hardy , the die-hard pessimist. Not a doubting thomas but a true blooded Chritistian . A die-Hardy pessimist to whom a happiness is an episode in the general drama of pain.

Body is nature

Body is nature ,in leaf and in branch a bit of sky disappearing to a winter that has the four directions as clothes one wears , when one will go naked to the wind , breath like wind in door but body smile shall go on in the lips.

Body’s faint smile reasserts aliveness its relationships , all laughing matters all jokes remembered, fun replayed sarcasms revealed, jibes intended.

All this while ,inside, pectoral muscles are over time, bones in their support holding up nature like big green earth, a creation fish held to save world’s love of life, bon homie.

Digambara

He wears four directions as his clothes. Does it mean he wears nothing? Practically nothing. First ,he wears N,E,W,S. Because the four directions are only with reference to determining his locus. Like the sky they are shunyata, a zero hood that is nothing except value it confers on numbers,before and after. The skyclothes body wears confers value on it.

Clothes are the sky he wears .Sky is nothing.

I just stumbled upon zero-hood. Delicious turn of phrase. He wears zero as hood.

Zero hood
I just stumbled on this zero hood. A delicious turn of phrase.

He wears zero as hood. Which means he wears nothing . It is a hood to protect him from the ravages of time, from the savages of space.

Faint smile
Body has a faint smile. Under the lower basement the body smiles through the roof till the fourth floor living room, where smiles were till yesterday horizontal.

The faint smile will go on vertically till later in the day when it will turn ashes like all the previous smiles that went before.

Wind in door
In the midnights the pipal leaves moan softly from a mountain breeze. During the hot day the children plucked pipal leaves ,moistened their spikes with their spit and made funny surrr sounds on them with their fingers.

The leaves are now moaning softly. The saddest mountain tales they have brought are too familiar to them. They are just doing their duty.

The wind is trying to pass under the door. As if a new postman is inserting mail through the door gap.

From the savages of space
Ah, another good turn of phrase. Fits in nicely with the hood.

Who are those hooded hordes swarming over endless plains?

Eliot’s The Waste Land

I and my body
How far am I from my body? I wrest myself away from it and manage to stay on the air to watch it through its funny contortions .

I love the delicious irony present in its dogged persistence today, its linkages in time through yesterday and tomorrow.

I rarely look down and I do not like to look at its nine holes. Let the holes do their business.

Nine holes
Nine are my holes to the world. When body dies my nine holes shall merge in the general space .

I shall be empty space, merging in the emptiness of space.

Growing old
Now that you are moved over from being uncle to grandfather, do you have two new green horns? A little girl in the river island first calls you uncle and later revises her address as grandfather. Did she spot horns?

The old men are in their river islands and tiny moths make a halo around their shore lanterns . Little Bengali girls reach over and touch their horns. The halo of the moths shakes with the lanterns shadow.

Green horns
Since you are recent old ,you spot two new shiny green horns on your head.

Now you are a greenhorn old man.

Famously
The sun is up and beyond .I am sitting in a pool of bright yellow shine. The tree  saree hardly waves, not even a shred of its baby memory. A  bird is shouting from a tree space but everything  else is quiet on the ears. Just now a noise of film songs is sauntering in from a pant pocket.

This morning it was about famously. And fatuously ,by a cows behind. The flies are abuzz about cow tales. And when we lay on the straw mat  we are horizontal . We see flowers famously at the feet as the flies abuzz.

Famous biryani
Do you know the city of Hyderabad is famous for its biryani. What meat,what rice ,topped by a tumbler of Irani tea,!!!

The goats behind biryani are anonymous. Before they warm stomach they hang upside down in a butcher shop ,totally contented .They were not all that famous .

An only goat
Kenny the child came looking for an only goat. But the white goat he met said an only goat was lonely. Besides the white goat cannot tell funny stories.

Kenny did not come looking for any goat. Kenny is turning back, an only boy of his mama.

Kenny’s window : Maurice Sendak

Fish for thought
The  cement branches  in this park have the names of their donors painted in monstrous ,colourful letters. Excuse me ,madam ,I am sitting on your name.

This morning we had a  tremendous fish for thought. Elizabeth Bishop goes micro about fish she catches for an evening meal. Eye to eye ,fish and woman ,the victory goes to fish, who has large fish eyes. The boat has bilge that holds a grease rainbow .

All is colours like the park benches here. The fish is victorious in the sea .

Sitting on a name
In the park with parrot green benches, I sit on someone’s name. The benches have the names of the donors on the benches. I mean no disrespect.

Micro about a fish
Madam goes micro about a tremendous fish she catches from a boat. A bloody fish with gills,barnacles ,fish eyes etc. In a war of eyes ,everything is so micro.

Elizabeth is Bishop in a macro way. She is Bishop not in the ecclesiastical way. She just carries Bishop name .Fish have no names but there are big fish,small fish. They are all tremendous. They put up a tough fight when you want to eat them.

Fish eye
You may edit your camera picture with a fish eye view. A concave way of looking.

In our ancient mythological tales beautiful angelic women had fish eyes and the God wives too, for whom we have a temple that rises to the sky.

We are not sure if eyes look like entire fish or only like the eyes of the fish .The latter is not such a big deal.

Only an expert archer who can shoot a revolving fish eye can marry the beautiful princess.

Concave
A cold wind is blowing  farewell to winter. The sun is a mild peach in the tree.

This morning fish eyes came  with their concave world view, a paradigm. Beauty eyes are fish eyes with a concave  vision. In the dance the woman plotted fish eyes with her fingers on dark lined eyes.

The goddess of the fall temple is fish-eyed and beautiful. Old man in the sea has to grapple with fish eyes in  life and death.

Disappearing
Yesterday night we  had heard another act of  disappearing. As the television news hour went on as  a battle of bright wits , the disappearing sound played softly in the wind.

He appeared a year ago in a balcony of some one else’s disappearing. The latter smoke was a sound we all heard in our plastic chairs. And now what a fine disappearing  act he would perform ,while still in heavy-lidded sleep!

Absurdly soundless.

Dying soundlessly
He was in a plastic chair that made living sounds. He would watch a balcony from where others disappeared . In fire and brimstone. A smoke that went from your nine holes. A smoke that meant for everyone of us to disappear from white plastic chairs.

Now he disappears soundlessly from the plastic chairs . Disappears from the nine holes.

Uncles and aunts
On the parrot green bench ,the winter is still around. The sun seems recent.

This morning we thought about the old heads talking. The old heads are some bodies to look up to , uncles and aunts. They bob up over street crowds turning to the side streets. They go  sit in old mausolea .

The recent ones will look up to their heads . The recent ones find their words from their dark staircases invisible, quiet and some times ascending.

Torrents of Vonegut

You try to get Kurt’s Slapstick. Damn torrent does not open. Heigh ho! Some more lonely.

I have a cat in the cradle. Which means out of the bag.

Nice,nice,nice.

Midday Nap

After mid-day meal is heavy-lidded nap.

String

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 Vonegut.

Evening on green bench

It is still evening . I have to go the architect to sign a location map.

Findling a lie

Google Drive gets better search, so you can finally find that goddamn file.

The headline can be mutilated by a dirty mind this way:

Google’s (sex) drive gets better (at) search, so you can finally findle that goddamn lie.

Black comedy

Soap opera! Sister says of death. Her own.

Hey ho.

Kurt the moustache of W.W.2 is back into my mouth’s slurping. Hey ho.

If my catheter hurts less this time, I offer one kilo of sweets to the fakir God.
Says woman waiting to go upstairs.

Doctor says no space upstairs for the present. Soap opera !

Catnap

I had put Kurt mustache to nap. I wanted for it a cat nap but as it turned out it was a ferocious jungle cat sleep. The jungle cat twirled its mustache threateningly.

Yesterday’s cat was in a cradle. Today it has grown to a big cat.

I now have a dozen of Kurt’s twirls. Right now, that is before the feral sleep,I am wading in Slapstick or what you have.

Kurt mishap

The idiot zygotic twin-egg pair ,who should have died long ago turn intelligent and polite. They have read all the books.

That is the mishap for which Dr.Mott is accountable .

But the cat is soon back on its soft foot.

Don’t you worry -the supernumerary nipple shall be hid from prying eyes.

Take a flying fuck

Are you a thirteen, sir? Asks the guard.
With all respects due to you, President sir,
take a flying fuck at the rolling doughnut or take a flying fuck at the moooooon.

The President took it ?

To marry the beautiful Draupadi ,eligible princes have to shoot an arrow at the revolving fish eye.

Something like the flying fuck. The princes took it?

Only Arjuna could do it. And he gets the fuck.

Draupadi was his mooooon.

Hoboson’s choice

A hobo is a homeless vagrant.

W.H.Davies was a hobo who could break away from hobohood to become a Doctor of Letters.

Dr.Hobo makes out a strong case for No Work.
(The Sleepers by W.H.Davies)

You want to sleep peacefully under the subway, rain or shine with no watch to show office time?

Or you want to be a zombie commuter on way to work every morning before the cock crows?

Hoboson’s choice.
(By the way hobos have no sons)

Either way you are going to die long before your time.

But the former state allows you time to stand and stare.

The latter allows time to stand in the local train with your body parts mixed up with other similar body parts.

Standing and staring

Sheep or cows can stand beneath the bough and stare as long they can.

(Leisure by W.H.Davies)

When we pass woods we cannot stand awhile to watch a squirrel hide its nut in grass. We have no time for the squirrel’s flippancy.

Does the squirrel have time to stare at a biped passing ,wearing dark goggles?

It would not know where the eyes were behind the glasses.

No work, all pay

Work is wash-up and no work is all pay. In the parliament you get paid for sleeping and watching porno on smart phones.

Hollow bark

Morning was when I asked about the dog’s v -bark . V -bark? That was not any bark but a hollow bark of midnight, with an electric fan whirring above my inside. A matter of atmosphere.

 V- bark is not like v -belt but a continuous wail by a v- shaped dog snout.

By the way , v- birds are birds in a painted landscape sky, with two rocks and a date palm with  a well-worn  pathway along the rocks.

Emissions

Cars of odd numbers and even numbers to use Delhi roads on alternate days. To halve emissions . The cops will have a tough time watching your behinds.

Some truck behinds warn: O you evil eyed man, may hour face turn black. They also tell you Horn OK Please. Truck behinds have more emissions. It is not OK to horn.

 But car behinds have no  such warnings. Some cars have “In Jesus We Trust”. But they have emissions nevertheless.

The mountain’s cracked smiles

The sun is piercing the tree . Tree has a rag waving in the air. It might have had a baby in it. The mom may be now bearing bricks on her head elsewhere and the baby swinging by another tree’s breeze.

 A baby sun is fiercely swinging on the opposite tree.

On the way back a mountain cracked in smiles. They are probably making houses of the mountain.

Funes the Memorious

A woman is holding on to  the iron bars unwittingly . I  sit under the neem tree ,with a dog bark  tickling my right face. A bald man is waltzing near the iron bars .

Morning after midnight I heard Funes , the Memorious. He was gorgeous pre-blind Borges on a visit to Uruguay. Funes would later fall from his horseback and discover a new  phenomenal memory.

He would name each of the numbers up to  21,000 or so and remember to call them by the names.

Was it a bit of needless extrapolation?

I do not believe it is real. But Borges story is itself unreal, partly blind. His books stacked up to the roof and he could read all of them with the minds eye.

But Funes cannot generalise. He cannot capitulate. He has details that do not add up.

Concrete Funes

If Funes has every detail of every day of his life, what is the problem? If only he can junk them and keep only postulates till postulates are themselves junkworthy.

Funes is concrete. He is stuck with the stone pleats of a lake’s Standing Buddha . The abstract Buddha meditating under the pipal escapes him.

Potato peels

The laughing club guys were swiveling their necks like table fans . They  would burst into paroxysms of laughter soon. But they ran short of  jokes for laughing.

 I think about  Seamus Heany and his mother on collaborative potato peeling . The potato peels they did together  fell off like little drops of flame from a solder. They were his moments with her.

 (“When all the others were away at the Mass” : Sonnet by Seamus Heany”)

The peels made soft plops on their silence . On her death bed the priests prayers went hammer and tongs. They were not his monuments .He remembered her head bent towards his, her breath in his, their fluent dipping never closer the whole rest of  their lives.

I take leave of a big bright silver sun behind cool clouds. Somehow he is not gold this morning .

Specious arguments

We argued for a neat unified life its spidery dreams enough material for lyrical verse, its terms nature like filigree works of a spider circle hanging by roadside thorn tree ,here and going but expectantly postponed to  the returning camera. The argument of a life steeped in pearly lyrics was lost to spider snug in a silky wayside hexagon ,not usual concurrent lyric circles. But geometry is not our concern.

We argued to retain it in return a beauty to capture in the mind not on the dew of camera lyric. The camera turns out its beauty if put off , a fine lyric in making. We gestured acceptance in air. Our hands went up to a sunrise and we would turn a silhouette standing by the spider getting busy at its gathering dew pearls.

Our arguments sound specious always during our morning walks.

Half lie

Today is a cold day with a gentle breeze touching the trees. A mild sun is up in the trees.

This morning we thought of the continuous half lie  we are .In our beginning , outside the cloth cradle was a  full lie each time it swung to the wooden beam and returned.

Tomorrow is   half lie, an illusion of continued existence .

A half lie is continuous fog . A sea mist in our eyes. Our bodies are a  lie about us. A half lie is  irony embedded in them for some one’s sarcastic pleasure .

Wise to the clock

From the green bench,  after the fall of the  almond leaves ,we see men on the track rotating clockwise. Men are wise to their clock. 

Death is our shadow ,January to February as the months rotate like men in the park. Soon we will be in February with its own shadows. March must bring snow and wind. There will be new suns in the hills. There will be snows of  forgetfulness.

* At the KFC
At the KFC all things are red but some things are red and dead. The walls are red .The chicken is freshly dead. Sometimes it is dressed to be killed . Luckily they do not cross the high street .

Chicken is fresh and red, the color of the wall panels .Like embroidered chicken. Chicken are highly embroidered in cock fights, where they turn red and dead, by each others legs. The knives tied to their legs make fine embroidery of chickens. Red and dead.
In rice their corpses are a fine biryani. The city is famous for its chicken biryani . Not so famous in the chicken population.

* Fresh chicken
The chicken shop in the street corner advertises fresh chicken. Wonder how a dead chicken can be fresh or if it is a bird slaughtered just now, it can only be a fresh carcass. The shop also lists a dressed chicken. All dressed and nowhere to go?