Dusk

She is made in clouds, her everything wondrous in clouds marveled

Cloudless paltry Arjun lights a dusk in the meadows.

Spreading what is permeable , transcending boundaries.

My mouth jitters , with blues , with crimson evasive.

Meek fingertips play its first with grasses
Dew stained grassroots strokes virginal fingers.

Everything else a burning carpet.

She was taken in cloudy carpets
In different colors, by different men.

Chronicle of colors vanquished
In consciousness, in her oblivion.

Arjun, meadow possessed , lights a lonely dusk.

Elegy of nineteen

Strange as I think of you now, like I don't remember anything

Deity as you once were, from the unreal to the real - your transcendence

Marched past the policing age, the bilingual virginal solitude granted

Bodyless, dayless eternity where you walked down once

Few hundred years ago, in my timeless string of comas.

Strange when your unwilling lips touched mine, in a lack-love pact

Tanned as you died then, halo of hollow inevitability.

No, I don't remember anything, but the ghetto of Amidah hymns

Brain-tricked rising of the absolute from the absolute that absolutes

Absolves, unvanquished trident. When you had a mouth - and I had none.

My eyes fixed to you, unnoticeable feminine absolute, wholly your Amidah remains

Storming like a radiant phantom, textless , in a language of genesis.

Rinsed with no rain, no Bombay, no rice - stones remain in briefs.

Threshold of Joy - II

She doesn't like my poetry - that's true
In fact she reads to me, excerpt of her friends'
To them I utter thousand metonyms of tribute
She doesn't think of me as a poet too, but
My thoughts smelling in her, wrote an entire poem.
When her friends raise glasses of delight
Waves of joy splashes her face.
I do not want anything, but a sight of that joy.
Wherever she stays happy
With whoever that makes her so, let her be.
Let her joy burn the face of God in elation
Let her anonymous joy - break in light from all directions
She doesn't love my words - but in this life
Of hell-bent disharmony
She is my lone drop of love, she is my -
Joy. One lake full of joy.

Expiry

Long quiet sundays drift.
Writing to reach you,
Since I do not know
Otherwise.