Cat

My ex, she sneaks in,
Like a deceptive cat.
To pamper me and
Talk for a while.

With an emotional
Stirr of hopelessness.
I keep on asking her,
Why?

The conflict therein,
She lacking answers
To my questions.
My denial to face the
Reality- to hold back
Onto charred fantasies.
Which light up upon
Her instance.

This to and fro
Toxic communication,
In spurts.
Stretched well over
Three years.
Pervades my iron walls
Every time.

These days instead
Of shooing her all night.
I've decided to let
My rats bell the cat.

Though she makes
Noise. My rats know,
Where to hide.

Critics

I sit on the floor to
Mindlessly scribble.
The mosquitoes attack
Me like puny critics.

It's like a preventive
Attack by state agents,
To control supposed
Damage in the future.

Instead of putting my
Pen to work.
I keep flapping my
Notebook to crush
Them, between pages.

The blood splatter
And black pigment
Of the gut,
Smudge of their
Bodies..
Spread on paper-

Almost looks like
Unintended piece
Of painting.
Like modern art,
The meaning of which
Only the artist knows.

The abstract of it
Screaming, at me-
To take vows of
Silence and
Give up any form
Of expression.

But something in me
Waits for more colors to 

Draw better allegories.

And just then I see
A housefly come flying
Towards me.

Corporatization of a poem

The streetlights, 

Have replaced the place

Reserved for the moon
In my poems.

The gentle wind in the
Second-stanza had to be
Put to some use-
So the windmills been
Put up to generate 

A side income.

And in the groove of 

This verse you wanna 

Fall in-

The roads aren't tattered,
Reveries are marked
And named.
The question of getting
Lost had to be a
Guided miscalculation.

The straight trees are cut
To floor homes with
Safe bunkers-
The insecurities in
The penultimate stanza
Had to be eliminated.

The real estate boom
In the following stanzas-
The humble homes have
Been replaced by lonely
Apartment rooms.

The corporatization of 
This poem inflated the
Price per carpet area of
The words anyway.

So the predatory-loans
From China, that had

To be borrowed, are 
Gonna whisper Mandarin,
In the space between
These lines henceforth.

And if you're gonna put
Efforts to decipher
The metaphors,
You shall be called
A commie, to be put up
In a house arrest.

Helmet

To all my fellow bike riders,
Who have made an effort
To point out my poking,
Side stand.

Who, while coming from
The other side, warned
With passing glances,
The presence of the police.

The ones of help when
The tire was flat.
Gave a lift despite the
Trouble of a triple ride.

Even more to those who
Managed to hitch a ride,
By pushing it by one leg,
When petrol was out.

You guys deserve a
Place in heaven.
Like me who rode the
Bike without helmet.

Abandoned House

Door mats with no footsteps 

Laid for over a decade.
The thresholds deprived
Of the touch of any feet.

The doors that haven't
Lead anyone to any room.
The air, stuck in a corner,
Running out of breath.

The knives in the kitchen
Rusting away without the
Final taste of onions.
The taps, thirsty without-

The slake of water.
The furniture, with lost limbs,
The bells that refuse to sing
And the broken window sills.

Life is being eaten away
In this dust-laden slavery.
The half-life of this
Abandoned house is

Being measured by
Cobwebs, per square inch.

The audacity

The audacity of periwinkles

Growing up from the cracks
In the concrete walls.

The audacity of rats cutting,
The wires of ultrasonic repellent,
For the very purpose, it was brought.

The audacity of dogs barking,
Bulls openly mating and crows
Stealing rotis without our notice.

The audacity of the pigeon crossing,
The barbed wires to poop on
The fuelled up tanks.

The audacity of yourself in the
Mirror. The nation is in a crisis.
How dare you smile?

Whole

When I ride the bike,

At 60kmph in the rain,
I'm the head in the
Confinement of the
Helmet.

While I walk throwing
My steps against the
Blackness of the asphalt.
I'm the insignificant force
Per square feet.

As I hold this pen,
Trying to gather thoughts
To ram them against
This martyred sheet
Of trees..

I'm the illegible trace
Of the lines.

Coming up with heavy
Steps, tired.
Becoming the thud of
The door.
Spreading myself by
Becoming the bed.
Then the coldness of
The slow-rotating fan.

The mind goes numb,
The eyes slowly close.
The exquisite comfort of
The sleep invades-

Now, I'm anybody,
Everybody and nobody.
Only in the existential
Nothingness of slumber-

I'm complete. 

I'm whole.

Russian Chirps

All night he moans out

Of pain, my ailing father.

Then in the morning,

Stands in the backyard,

On his crippled leg..

Waiting for the 

Yellow-backed sparrows.

How he tells everyone

Who comes to meet him.

That the little ones

Visit him every September,

All the way from Russia.

He references his inference

To planetary motion and 

An ancient number theory.

But who cares from where

Or how they come right?

As he stands there 

Grappling with whatever

Life he is left with.

Forgetting pain with

A bag full of feed for

The migratory birds.

Maybe they talk to

Him in Russian.

Narrating the stories

Of Chekhov, Tolstoy 

Or Orwell.

For all the time he

Has served in the army,

Driving Russian tanks.

Even if he thinks,

This daily respite as

A therapy sanctioned

By Vladimir Putin.

There's nothing wrong.

Demise

In the final hour,

Her breath cracked like
An un-oiled machine,
Summoning strength to
Give it a final try.

Her eyes rolled around,
To look at whoever was
Present. Maybe she
Acknowledged everyone
One last time.

Then, I who sat, rubbing
Her right foot.
It suddenly turned cold.
When I saw her leg,
The otherwise brown-

Had turned yellow.
The kind of yellow,
You can't imagine but
When see, you know the
Horror of that paleness.

One of my aunts burst
Into a huge cry.
What was lingering in
Everyone's head was
A manifested reality.

The proper noun 

Grandma was, moments ago-
Laid there lifeless as
A body waiting to become
Fading memory.

On the third day when
The crows fed on the
Food offerings of Tithi,
It was as if a permission
Was granted to take her,

"Off our conscience."
So that we could comfortably
Push her to the realm
Of forgetfulness for the
Slow assault of time.

Surveillance

The wet stink of dog skin, 

Fresh ooze of crimson red,
Mixed in half-burnt soot
Of human hair.

The pitch dark of the
Night that hides the
Dry stare of imminent
Death.

The fear that creeps in
The thigh bones, the terror
Seeping into the nose
Through the thicked air.

Walking upright is an
Achievement.
Our Survival demands
Silence..

The bullets, as they hail
Detecting even a bit of
Louder thoughts.
Take these gags-

Suppress the muffling
Of those ideas.
We don't want you to
Die in this regime.

Heels

The pink sandals
With heels-

Every time I run down
The stairs.
There's something about
The pair.

The beauty, the curiosity,
The sheer deception
As they neatly sit there
Catching my eyes..

After weeks of 

This encounter-

A fantasy got around
The sight of them.
The imagery took shape
Of a fetishized face.

Then the fancy met,
The reality when,
My landlord's girl,
Opened the gate.

Ahh! The disappointment.

Never meet your idols
They say. The reality of a
Fantasy is often a
Disgrace.

Poet

The old photo frames,

With their tattered
Black and whites, still
Try to be relevant.

The fake plastic trees,
That sit in the showcase,
Mock the houseflies,
In an attempt to ooze life.

Dust ridden trophies
Looking down on the
Broken toys still seem
To be haughty and proud.

The dried flowers,
Stripped off of all fragrance,
Still peeking from the corner,
To lure the bees in vain.

And I'm sitting here,
Judging them all,
Trying to gather up all
Ill-fated words to prove..

That I'm a goddamn
Poet at last.

Best Letters

The words that hitch

A ride with the
Immediate simmer
Of thoughts.

Blown out from the
Rush of blood,
Illegibly traced on
Loose papers.

The words that readily
Manifest out of angst,
Without reasonable
Considerations.

The ones cursed
To brood in long drafts,
Often deprived of an
Address they're destined.

The best letters
Are often unsent.

Sometimes in closets,
Sometimes in bins and
In unopened envelopes..
The best letters are-

Often unread.

They linger in you,
Then in the air.
Then turn into shreds,
Of memories.

To live in you as a
After-taste of a
Long-lasting grief.

Sacked City

The empty jhulas swing back and forth,
Above the cold embers of half-doused fire.

The sunsets today seem to smother,
The whiteness of the lilies that want to be born.

The stony silence of the resolute men,
Melt away hopes of the little ones and

The grief of mothers pit against the
Distant peaks like wingless butterflies..
In an attempt to assuage the injured kids.

A vast expanse of dusk covers the torsos,
Searching for their severed heads and
The silence that covers is so terrible-

Even hyenas are shedding real tears for
Their inability to feed on the human Caracas.

And to the onslaught of plundering savages-
The God's beseech for forgiveness from the dead,
For not being able to carry out the final rites.

The dark is so deep, amidst the unlit pyres,
There might not be a dawn to the demised tale-

Of this midnight.

Apathy and Devotion

With the glut of prayers,
Temples are crowded.
The walls of the
Sanctum are tired.

The bells having worked,
Without respite, want to
Shed their weight,
On someone's shoulder.

But atheists are not
Allowed to be involved.

So every time, someone
Rings the bells to offer
Prayers to the lord-
Before they reach him,

They're being absorbed
By the walls.

Nauseated by the soot
Of the oil lamps,
The Lord hides in the dark,
Like a deaf commander-

In seek of rest from his
Seekers' relentless asks.

Intellectual Orgasam

As you unveil the face of

Another poem to me.

The warmth of opening lines, 

Hit me where they have to.

Your well-thought words

And metaphors, falling

In sync with my already,

Fired up dopamine.

As I'm through the

Third paragraph,

A sensuous little prick,

In my poetic mind and 

Frankly in all good intentions,

It's a little turn-on.

The symbolism, 

Evoking the memory of

Your beguiling smile.

The penta-tones,

Picturing your stout 

Bust and bosom..

While fondling with 

The softness of the philosophy,

The way it gets to the end.

It boggles me-

It boggles me but pardon

My language when I say-

How I want to fuck you,

From the back,

In that last paragraph.

Maybe

In a distant city, 

On a rainy day.

When you get down 

From an auto 

To find a cafe.. and 

Stride on the margins,

To avoid the flash of

Street water-

Like two strangers 

Passing by with the 

Accidental exchange 

Of glances..

May our eyes 

Meet again.

I'll act like I saw 

Someone who looked 

Like you and

Turn past the corner 

Before one of us realizes 

What happened.

Guising in the shade 

Of the past, if any thought,

Crosses your mind..

To color your imagination,

and pull you back..

And if you 

Coincidentally, 

Glide around to 

Look out for something 

You forgot-

There, in the corner,

Buried in a pretense 

Of a magazine, I stand..

Hello! 

Familiar stranger.

Damn! It'll be hard 

Not to smile.

Imagination

As I sit here in my room,

Listening to Indian classical
Fusion on low volume.

I can't help but notice,
The swish of wind and chirp of
Birds, just outside the window.

Little away, maybe be in
The backyard, someone is
Washing the clothes.

Further away,
As I consciously make
An effort to listen.

There's a drill running and
Sound of running vehicles
And honking.

Beyond that, I hear nothing.
It's as if I'm deaf.

Then I look out of the window.
Stretch of houses, shrubs,
Trees, and a distant factory.

The hill meets the sky
Maybe some faint clouds,
And then there's nothing.

This deafness after some
Meters and blindness after
A couple of kilometers..

That's the limit.

Then there's imagination,
To mend, bend, and redefine
The existing reality.

There, only there I think
We're infinite.

Fate

I kicked a stone on
An empty road.
It rolled around tumbling
And disappeared on
The sidelines.

I kicked another that
Rolled to the wheels of
Approaching car.
The driver threw at
Me a fiery look.

I took one more in
The line of action.
Upon a kick it,
Took off to hit my
Friend in the head.

Now he's on the
Hospital bed.
Who I am? He asks.
I smile awkwardly
To hide my deed.

Years and years later,
When he realised
It was me. To return
The favor, he kicked
A stone at me..

Which bounced off
A running truck and
Hit his head again.
Who he is? He asks.
Looking at him, I smile.

His pending revenge,
It might take a couple
Of years again..
While another stone,
Might be waiting for him-

With his name written
All over it.

Poetry in handcuffs

When you force out the

Words from the ghetto of

Your rigid mind.

And they slide down

Perching, through the

Labyrinth of mutilated

Thoughts.

The life out of it losing

All objectivity and

The objectivity having

Squeezed out of life..

As they cascade down

Via the pretense of

A verbose pen to spread

On the charade of a paper.

The reader has to tie

It up to a chair to beat a

Confession out it, 

For some meaning..

Only to give up in dejection,

To flush it down into

Forgetfulness; in search of

A better meaning to life..

Than this tragedy 

Called poetry.

Symphony

In the good old backyard
Of mine in the village.
Nothing is in order.

Things lying around,
In their own emptiness,
Try to ooze life somehow.

The swish of wind,
Clips on the cloth line dangle.
To which the yellow
Marigolds rhyme in sync.

Crows caw from the
Eucalyptus.
Torn saree stuck in
The fence flutter and
The the periwinkles
Dance in style.

A broken chair and
Handicapped cot observe
This from where they sit.

The water pipe unevenly folded
Lies around with the broom
Like they're on a blind date,
To this concert.

Then there's a wooden log,
Paint-can, coconut husk and
A gunny bag full of trash.

A big water tank,
Then the water cans
And buckets.
Joining in as a family.

Washing brush, surf,
A dishwasher and a small
Stool on the marble slab.
The coterie glancing around
Enjoying the dusky sky.

In a shocking sort of awe
A hornbill comes hooting to
Relax in the crown of
The tamarind tree.

And like hell, the broken
Bicycle in the corner must be
Wishing for a bit more life to
Enjoy this evening's..

Symphony.

Role Change

Abusive fathers

Have turned to

Doodling and

Caring mothers

Are looking for

Amends by cooking

Really bad food. 

All the uncles 

Have stopped

Giving free advice.

Aunties have 

Stopped poking

Noses in personal

Lives.

The grandmas

Are forcing up

Sugar-free diet.

The site grandpa

Bought for 5k is

Over a crore now.

Friends have all

Turned decent and 

Stopped drinking.

Winds of change

Has gotten to me too.

I'm not masturbating.

The Coup

I sleeplessly flutter my eyes

To the long howling bark

Of my landlord's dog.

Is it her unanimous pledge

To the distant cry of others 

Of her kind? or,

Tonight, like every other,

They're celebrating the 

Delusion of dead humans?

Sometimes, I like to fancy this,

As a battle cry for an attack 

To overthrow our subjugation.

But then out of sheer loathe

Towards this bitch downstairs,

I would like to think of her-

As a petty snitch.

Who has been sent here to 

Spy upon us. 

To the lure of food and

Shelter.. or her own

Stockholm syndrome.

She seems to have betrayed 

Her tribe. To howl now, 

At this hour; for a display of-

Her fake allegiance to

Her lost comrades, who,

Hopelessly wait for her cues,

For a coup.

Chappal

Made of rough fabric,

Brown, size eight.

Off the main road,

By the Banyan tree,

A chappal sits, sullen.

In misery.

Thrown out off the 

Temple yard, kicked out 

To the sidelines, don't know

By how many.

A tramp in rags,

Picks up the discarded,

Measuring her against 

His foot.

And the kids laugh

As he walks, wearing,

An unsuitable match.

That's how it is,

Recycling, is bad 

For capitalism anyway.

For the religion,

It's widow remarriage.

Kaudi- The blanket

In her last years, Nani spent

All her time stitching Kaudi.

She did tens of them and gave

Them away to her loved ones.

She would gather all the

Old clothes, cut them up,

Stitch them in patches on

Stretch of old sarees.

These blankets she stitched 

So meticulously, almost

Every hour of every day,

Looked like her biography.

All the childhood memories,

Scattered in the red patches.

Her teenage days in the

Checkered yellow ones..

In the glittery embroidery

On the borders. 

Maybe about her first love 

Or a crush if there was one.

I got the last one of 

Her final work.

One of the nights,

The green patches in mine,

Told me all about the raw guavas 

In her father's backyard.

Now that I keep thinking 

About those violet, brown 

And the pink patches that 

Haven't yet talked..

Maybe that's where the rest

Of the world's libraries hide.

Man's Oldest Friend

So we grab you when 

You're just a puppy. 

We feed you, nurse you. 

Cuddle and sometimes clean 

Your shit. Then let you be in

Our family portraits.

We put on a leash, to let you

Roam at our will.

So you can jump, run and

Drag us to heaven and hell.

And when you have urges and

In seek of a mate, if you

Go on smelling genitals in

The streets. How dare you?

How dare you, 

Hop on the females? 

How dare you,

Publicly display affection?

Your sex drive doesn't 

Suit our morals you silly.

You need to comply to

Fall in our norms.

Here's what we shall do,

Let's sterilize or castrate you.

Even if you wanna procreate 

To take further your lines.

Then let's choose the best,

To engineer the cute ones..

When we say, 

Selective breeding is the best.

You should believe us as we've 

Always catered to your interests.

After all, you're humankind's

Earliest friend.

Weapon

In the first year,

He pees a trajectory.

That hits his father's

Nose.

At age five, he takes

Aim at a street bulb.

Hits it accurately,

With a stone.

When he turns ten,

Shoots off an arrow to

Damage a pig's eye,

From a wooden bow.

Then he fancies a

Slingshot at the turn,

Of fifteen. Off the roof

A pigeon shortly falls.

Now that he turns

Twenty-five, and

Stands holding a gun

In front of the mirror..

Unable to pull the trigger,

'Phew-phew-phew' 

He says..

He doesn't know why.

His tongue can be a 

Better weapon, 

Its agility Over the years

He has realized.

And in the thirties, 

He has but a big mouth,

To repeat lies and

Hack minds..

Weapons bring you

Victims. With words,

The victims become

Your weapons.

Propaganda works

That way.

Words are deadlier

Than bullets.

These days that's why 

He's fully engaged..

In political debates.

Sublime Story

Ever since I was a kid,

Each year this girl came

To the temple outside

The village for special Pooja.

We too went as a family,

On to seek Hanuman.

After many encounters,

A precedent was set.

I looked at her, she at me.

Our eyes met.

The permanence of this

Connection was limited

To recognizing each

Others' existence.

Only in fleeting glances,

We existed.

Then one year, she

Didn't come.

Then the following year

And a couple more.

Must have been married off.

To think about the worst,

The concern was not 

Beyond usual curiosity.

This year when I sensed 

A couple of eyes upon me.

With no usual ponies, 

Skirt or chudi..with a kid 

In hand, she stood there, 

Wearing a beautiful saree.

When I caught her eyes,

She smiled before looking 

Away. Then she went on

Her way and I, on mine.

So almost every year,

I met this girl.

In fleeting glances we

Recognised our existence.

Then she was on her way

And I returned to mine.

Some stories are feeble enough 

To be simple and sublime.

Tired Fragrancee

The wafted smell of jasmines,

While he passed the street yesterday.

Took him to the days when

His mother still fancied them

In her braid.

It seems like an era has

Passed now.

How his father brought them

To her from the local markets. 

How even she herself,

Stood arguing with hawkers,

For an extra inch of the wreath..

Now she doesn't wear any. 

When his father passed away 

And in what forsaken book

It must have been etched,

About the husband-less women,

And the flowers she fancies.

And if the natural order is just

Beauty and desire are 

The true measure of existence..

Then in every market, 

In the every hawker's wickers, 

A handful of Jasmines, 

That were ought to be in a 

Mother's braid..Wither in 

Tired fragrances.. 

And in all glory as they 

Waft past the noses of all the 

Over-aged sons, they slap them

Awake to the loneliness of their-

Widowed mothers.

Hypocrisy

Every time a male

Figurine pops up,

You pull up the ghungat 

To cover your face.

That's how women

Uphold family pride.

You go to the kitchen,

Whenever you're sad.

Sit down alone with a

Knife and an onion.

That's how dear,

A lady should cry.

You hide your panties,

Under a T-shirt on the

Cloth-line. Don't forget 

To clip them tight.

That's how female the

Underwears are dried.

And as you brood there,

Connecting the dots,

Back to the hypocrisy 

Of the tears and

The panties in disguise..

You may as well 

Consider the possibility

Of climbing up the ego

Of patriarchy to jump

Down to our self-respect..

As that's how your gender 

Should commit suicide.

Dissolve

Out here, upon this hillock.

As the tiny lavenders ruffle,

To the brush of my palms.

Little grasshoppers run

Awry and birds flutter their

Wings in a hurry.

Across the horizon, the clouds,

As they gather and bring

Upon the blessings of rain.

It occurs to me..

Right here. Right now. 

How I could just melt away,

Dissolve in the rain, and

Run down the muddy stream,

Flow through the city,

Join a river and then the sea.

Swim along the coastal shelf,

Mock them little fishes and

Freeze off to the dread of sharks.

It occurs to me, how beauty

And feeble gestures of nature,

Fills these hollow spaces in us..

Soften our edges to make us

Aware of our own existence,

Individuality and imagination.

Simplicity

Grandma said we

Hiccup when someone 

Really close misses

And remembers us.

The spasms of 

Diaphragm or uneven 

Flow of air to lungs 

Doesn't matter to her.

Likewise, to hell with 

Nebula, supernova or

Any of those 

Star-forming events.

She says, whenever

A loved one dies,

They appear in the

Sky as stars.

Now that she's dead

And I sulk on this

Terrace alone with

A beer in hand..

Looking up at the

Night sky at the

Stroke of midnight.

I wish, my fucked up

Life could cascade 

Down a little to that

Level of simplicity.

So that I could believe,

In the possibility that

The twinkling of the

Star in west-horizon,

Is because of

My dead grandma's

Hiccups.

Remembering and Forgetting

Reveries thrust

In beer bottles

Before discarding. 

Memories stashed 

In cigarette butts

After forcefully 

Forgetting. 

Any subtle trace

Of poetry that

Arises in my head.

I squish it with

My fingers and

Wipe out the stains

With masturbation.

Maybe I've 

Developed a liking 

To punish myself

This way. 

Dopamine works 

In a strange way. 

This repeated effort,

To remember and

Forget has formed 

Rough striations in

My brains. 

And whenever I rub 

My thoughts

Against it, the tones

That finds me..

Cascade down like

Sharp thrust of a

Needle down my 

Bones and I can't

Complain.

Incompetence of Language

In a language-less world,

When all the sharp objects,

Fail to capture human 

Desperation on rocks.

The quills stutter on the

Rough patches of parch

With the ink that's absorbed 

Across the surface.

I would want to sit staring

At the depth of your eyes,

Till a civilization falls at

Your feet, pleading to

Evolve itself a language,

That could fleet across

Our unwavering sight,

Only to declare,

Its helplessness to

Capture the dimensions

Of this one passing 

Moment.

So that then, I could 

Calmly explain, even in 

A verbose world, 

How incompetent I am, 

To describe our feeble 

Connection.

Begin Again

Each time 

The world tends

To end around me.

I rub my eyes.

Colors, flashes and

Swirl of starlight 

Gets to me.

My soul soaks in 

The Greek mythical river

That washes off

All the suffering.

Head pokes into

Into the sky of

Renaissance Italy.

Human creativity 

Is unbound.

A brief moment of

Belongingness 

Gets to me. 

Kind of nostalgia 

For unknown things..

Craving for that 

House that's not yet built.

To a place I haven't

Set my feet.

On the streets of

Ancient China,

Our eyes briefly

Meet..

We exchange a

Tiniest measurable

Human connection.

And that's where my

World ends.

So I rub my eyes

Again.

Swirls, colors and 

Bizarre series of

Accidents bring

Me here..

To meet you as

A stranger again.

OCD

Sometimes, it feels like 

My chair has a set of eyes.

That it creepily stares at me

To suck all my dreams.

It feels like the wall clock,

Has a pair of ears.

Makes me uncomfortable,

Thinking if it knows my secrets.

I wonder if the gas-cylinder 

Has a nose that sniffs off

My stink and snorts up 

Whatever ambition I'm left with. 

The metal-lock, perfume-bottle. 

The helmet, the iron-box.

The more I look at them and

Think, the more creepy they become.

I freaked out one day and

Accidentally came in front of

The mirror..

My eyes were a pair of chairs.

Two clocks in place of ears.

I sneezed out of shock and

The gas off my nose caught fire. 

Withering Fantasies

My focus goes 

On the eyes first.

Sharp nose next. 

Chubby cheeks, 

Juicy lips,

Waist that brings 

Out the bust. 

Breasts square root 

Of her butts. 

Unbuttoning, 

Her elegance in

A red dress, to

Eat away the

Desire hidden 

In her chest. 

She has been

Far away from

So long. Ahh! 

Disappointment 

Gets me each time

In the guts. 

Cacophony of

This rush. 

How to contain 

Four inches of 

This lust? 

Simply jerking 

Myself off, to

These withering

Fantasies isn't 

Just.

Give away

Open your palm 

And slowly clench it. 

You may wanna

Catch the wind.

Look at the moon,

And slowly close 

Your eyes. 

You may wanna 

Preserve that light. 

As you sit there,

Reclined. A leg, 

Upon another..

And as you lift one 

Ass-cheek..

To comfortably,

Exhale, from 

The other vent-

Hold your breath. 

You owe the

Moment to others.

Let them have an

Opportunity,

To rinse their noses

With primordial 

Gas of your belly

That's scented with 

Hydrogen sulfide.

Pain

The leeches, 

That slither down

Our skin.

The vermins that

Eat over the 

Leftover sleep.

We're not afraid

Of the devil, 

That pays a visit

In our dreams.

The wounds, 

Inflicted this way 

Can eventually

Be healed. 

The worst kind

Of pain has certain,

Hidden softness

About it. Like-

The rose petals

That slit open

Our veins..but

We've been happy

About the smell

That has stayed. 

The bygones,

Who left a memory 

Without care and

The nostalgia, 

Has been ruining

Our days in vain. 

Prison is a bad

Place anyway.

But when we,

Romanticize, 

We scratch open

The scars again.

Surviving

I tumbled in the

Sea of sadness.

I had to build

My boat again

To stop myself from

Drowning. 

But isn't it 

The task? 

Picking up

Ourselves again

And again till we 

Make it to the 

Shore..

I borrowed

Handful of water

To make myself

Some tea.

When the sun

Came up from over 

The salt-scented

Horizon,

I tasted a sip

And captured with

My polaroid,

The scene. 

Surviving pretty

Much is a 

Salt and sweet 

Deal. 

Denial

Before I can let oblivion win.

I'll douse cigarette butts on 

The surface of my skin-

To stash you in my sins. 

Before I let apathy take over.

I'll chisel down all my longings 

Deep enough to cast you down

My ribs. 

On the tip of my nib. 

Around the contours of

My whim. 

And before I let you go 

For good. I shall intimately

Weave you into the fabric of  

Cosmic expanse. So when, 

A star dies, every time,

The vacuum left shall set in 

A fiery impact that can only 

Be filled with your voice.

Solitary Confinement

To all the 

Unheard voices

I have been

Answering. 

For all the 

Unsent letters 

I've been waiting 

To be replied-

Invisible trails

Of ink. 

The Unseen

Things-

At a congregation

Of silence. 

I muffle prayers 

In a corner.. 

With a leash

Around my neck.

Blindfolds and

Gags still intact.

Compulsive Habit

When the moon

Comes up.

I gotta to put him

Down in my words.

When leaves rustle, 

Sparrows chirp. 

I gotta host them

In my pages. 

From amidst the

Casuarina trees,

When the wind blows,

I want it to bask in 

The warm comfort 

Of my reveries.

This noose around

My neck-

A compulsion to

Blurt it all out.. 

Tonight, the lizard 

On my wall, crawls, 

Holding a gun to 

My temple.. 

As, about it,

I'm unable to write,

Even a single 

Sentence.

Self Sabotage

These days

I'm trying to learn 

The art of killing. 

I've killed thoughts.

Prayers, wishes.

I've killed a

Couple of people, 

Three cities.

Some roads, rivers. 

Seems it doesn't 

Matter.

I've been killing 

The ideas I can 

Pen down, 

Memories I can

Save.

Reveries I can

Hold on.

I've killed you too,

Last night. 

And how hard

It can be to

Let lose other

Vanities.

Friends, parents

Home.

It doesn't matter

Right?

But as I write

This, standing here.

Standing alone.

Like an ocean

That has lost

All its water.

Left with just

Sand dunes and

Salt mounds..

I realize, that

A waterless ocean

Is not even a desert.

It's just a subtly 

Flaunted disaster.

Silence

The silence that

Stands on the

Margins of pages.

Unused places. 

Often untouched,

The silence that

Sits on our backs, 

Where hands fail 

To reach.

The silence that

Broods in the 

Corner of a room,

That doesn't 

Accumulate enough 

Dust to hold 

Your attention.

The silence amidst 

The thorns in

A rose bush,

That doesn't get

Due credit.

This silence,

Often is a lack of 

Reciprocation.

Between what

I said and what

You heard.

This nonchalance

For the things, 

Unsaid and unheard. 

The gap never 

Gets filled. 

Silence 

My dear is the

Ruin good things. 

ಖಾಲಿತನ

ಕೆರೆಯ ಅಛಲ

ಸ್ಥಿರತೆಯ ಮೇಲೆ,

ಖಾಲಿತನದ ಮಂಕು 

ನಿರ್ವಾತ.

ಇಲ್ಲಿ ಪಕ್ಷಿಗಳು

ಹಾರುವಂತಿಲ್ಲ.

ಕಲ್ಲುಗಳು ಬೀಳುವಂತಿಲ್ಲ.

ಹಾಡುಗಳಿಗಿಲ್ಲಿ,

ಉಳಿಗಾಲವಿಲ್ಲ.

ಖಾಲಿ ಹಾಳೆಯ

ಬಿಳಿ ಇದಲ್ಲ.

ಬರೆಯುವುದು,

ಚಿತ್ರ ಬಿಡಿಸುವುದು,

ಇಲ್ಲಿ ಸಾಧ್ಯವಿಲ್ಲ.

ತನ್ನ  ಮೇಲೆ 

ತಾನೇ ಏರಿ,

ಬಿಗಿತವ ಹೆಚ್ಚಿಸಿ,

ಇದು ವಾಸ್ತವತೆಯ

ತಿನ್ನುತ್ತದೆ. 

ಬಹಳ ಸಲ

ಬಣ್ಣಗಳಿಲ್ಲಿ ಬಂದು 

ಸಾಯುತ್ತವೆ.

ಕೆಲವೊಮ್ಮೆ ಇದು

ಕತ್ತಲಾಗಿ ಕವಿದರೆ.

ಮತ್ತೊಮ್ಮೆ ನೀಳ

ನೀರವತೆಯಾಗಿ

ಹಬ್ಬುತ್ತದೆ.

ಅಸ್ತಿತ್ವವನ್ನೇ

ಕಬಳಿಸುವ ಮರೆವು 

ಒಮ್ಮೊಮ್ಮೆ. 

ಕುರುಡಾಗಿಸುವ

ಬೆಳಕಾಗುವುದಿದು 

ಇನ್ನೊಮ್ಮೆ.

ನಿದ್ದೆ ಬರದ ಆ

ಸತ್ತ ರಾತ್ರಿಗಳಂದು,

ಮಾತಿಲ್ಲದೆ,

ಹಾಸಿಗೆಯ ಮೇಲೆ

ಅತ್ತಿಂದಿತ್ತ ಹೆಣವಾಗಿ

ಹೊರಳಾಡಿ,

ನಾನೂ, ನೀನೂ, 

ಸೋತು ಶರಣಾದಾಗ,

ಖಾಲಿತನದ 

ಈ ಶೂನ್ಯತೆಯ,

ಆಕರವಾಗುತ್ತೇವೆ.

Summon by Fire

After it's dark and

Before light breaks

Out by dawn, 

There's a 

Moment.

After the hunter fires

His gun and the

Bullet hits the deer, 

There's a 

Moment.

After this desire got

Set in and before our

Lips compulsively met, 

There was this 

Moment.. 

Of night passing

Into slumber. 

The deer staring 

At the inevitable. 

And I succumbing

To a summon 

By the fire,

Of your eyes.

Find Someone

Drinking the darkness

The land, the sea 

And the sky have 

Sunk in silence.

Maze of all the 

Invisible paths

Been blinded into

A mirage. 

Stealing everyone's

Identity, the night 

Has frozen down 

Into oblivion. 

What presented 

Itself is green is not

At all seen. 

Even the blue 

Couldn't escape

This unfortunate 

Deed.

The yellow too

Has shaken its hand

Into a comprise.

Red stayed for a 

While but it's been

Smothered too.

Rainbow now is

A monochromatic

Giant as everything

Is turning 

Increasingly black. 

Lonely insomniacs

Should stop trying.. 

Sleeping alone is

Not advisable

Tonight. 

Deserved mourning

As you learnt 

Speaking and played 

With words.

Few got choked in 

Your mouth as you 

Stuttered.

As you learnt to 

Understand.

Ideas that came 

Your way.

Many got crushed 

In your mental clutter.

As you wrote 

And painted.

The characters that 

Ended up on 

The wrong side of 

The papers. 

The pens you've 

Lost. The pages 

You've torn. 

To teach you 

Step by step, 

The bricks that 

Have died. 

All those 

Martyred things 

Deserve, 

More mourning.

Perhaps with

Few roses and 

Extra daisies. 

And few lines of 

Poetic eulogies.

Flowers

Flowers are a 

Vague strand 

Of hope, 

When everything

Around has 

Surrendered to

The onslaught

Of dark.

The pale yellow

Of marigold might 

Not shine enough,

To break the

Tethers of night.

The bright red

Of roses might

Sulk in a corner

After failing to

Summon ample

Amount of fire.

As, sometimes

Surviving the

Storm is important,

Than making a 

Point.

The lilies and

The daisies, 

As they wait,

Not yielding to

The subjugation

Of demons..

They become 

Windows to the

Derailed rays of

Light.

The flowers 

In the night are

The first songs

Of an arriving

Dawn. 

Unfinished Things

I start writing stories

And leave them midway.

Then tear up the pages to

Let them rot in a corner.

I suppose, maybe

Regrets get me going.

Like the time I decided

To climb a mountain

And came back without

Reaching the top. 

The girl I let go,

Out of sheer arrogance.

When there were ample 

Chances to amend.

The trains I hop.

Buses I get down from.

The constant urge to

Escape and leave

Things incomplete. 

So ingrained is this

Act of self-sabotage that-

By the end of each poem, 

I tend to kill the poet in me, 

To hang him in the

Last paragraph. 

And if you decide to

Read me next time. 

Bring flowers and 

Eulogies to offer peace,

To all the unfinished

And incomplete things. 

An Evening

To the effect of

Too much heat.

It has rained a

Little this evening.

The taste of 

Coffee is blended

With the smell

Of soil.

What more do

You need?

Scattering through

Raindrops, 

Sunlight filters

Through the

Eucalyptus trees. 

A halo around

Flying birds.

A painted

Distant horizon.

A suble sensation

On your skin.

What a beauty..

A presage for arrival 

Of good days

Ahead of schedule

It seems. 

This bliss in absence 

Of thoughts.

Disposition of a

Suspended mind.

Each breath is a

Formless hymn.

I seem to have

Become a 

My own dream. 

Ohh! Is this what 

Living in the 

Present means? 

Un-

Unsung songs on 

The tip of tongue,

Dissipate in 

Overused melodies.

Unrealised dreams

From moist eyes

Drown in forgotten 

Memories.

Unsent mails.

Unspent time.

Unsold fantasies 

In the holster to

Wither in tired 

Fragrances. 

An unlived life

Mourns in a

Body-bag with 

Muffled eulogies. 

Self Censorship

Weeping of any 

Form should be 

Declared as a crime.

Teardrops kissing

The cheeks is

Love-jihad. 

Speaking of any

Sorts should be

Looked down upon.

How dare you 

Set your both lips 

Apart?

Blinking of eyes.

Throbbing of heart.

Even breathing

Is such a laborious

Task.

Unemployment,

That's why is so

Rampant.

The left of the brain, 

Slips in a duel

With the right. 

While grey cells

Tend to go on a 

Hunger strike. 

And from around

Somewhere, 

A crooked thought,

Undemocratically

Dictates its terms.

The rest of the

Neurons do not

Fire up in protest. 

But my confused

Hand doesn't

Follow restraint.

To make a point

It doesn't hesitate. 

Un-aware,

It bloody doesn't

Understand.

That these battles 

Often die 

Unceremoniously

On a piece of 

Paper..

As pens do not

Have enough

Firepower. 

ಕೃತಿ

ದೂರದಲ್ಲೆಲ್ಲೋ,

ಒಂದು ಕಥೆ, ನಿನ್ನ 

ಆಸರೆ ಬಯಸಿದೆ.

ಕವನವೊಂದು,

ನಿನ್ನ ಶಬ್ದಗಳ‌ ಲಯದಿ 

ಕುಣಿಯಲು ಹಂಬಲಿಸಿದೆ.

ಚಿತ್ರವೊಂದು, ನಿನ್ನ 

ಕುಂಚದ ಸ್ಪರ್ಶದಿ

ಮೂಡಲಿಚ್ಚಯಿಸಿದರೆ..

ಕನಸೊಂದು,‌‌ ನಿನ್ನ,

ಕಣ್ಣಡಿ ನನಸಾಗ‌ಲು

ಕಾಯುತಿದೆ.

ನೀನೆಷ್ಟೇ, ನೀರಸ,

ಎಷ್ಟೇ ಮುಗ್ದನಿದ್ದರೂ.

ನೀನು..ನಿನ್ನಲ್ಲಿಯೇ..

ಒಂದು, ಬರೆಯಲಾಗದ,

ಬಿಡಿಸಲಾಗದ ಕಲೆ.

ಕೆತ್ತಲಾರದ ಮೂರ್ತಿ.

ಆ ಭಗವಂತನ

ಅನನ್ಯ ಕೃತಿ.

ಶುಭ ದಿನ

ತನ್ನ ಬೇಗೆಯಲ್ಲಿ 

ತಾನೇ ಬೆಂದೆನೆಂಬ 

ಹೆದರಿಕೆ ಬೆಂಕಿಗೆ.

ಬೂದಿ ಆಗಬಹುದಿದ್ದ,

ಗುಡಿಸಲೆಲ್ಲ ಉಳಿದಿವೆ.

ನೆಲದಲ್ಲಿ ಕಳೆದೆನೆಂಬ

ಕಳವಳ ನುಗ್ಗುವ 

ನೀರಿಗೆ.‌ ಈ ಸಲ 

ಫಸಲು‌ ಕೈಗೆ‌ ಸಿಕ್ಕಿದೆ.

ಬಿರುಗಾಳಿಗೂ

ಇವತ್ತೇಕೋ ಆಯಾಸ.

ದೋಣಿಗಳು ದಡ

ಸೇರಿವೆ, ನಾವಿಕರಿಗೆ,

ತೆಲೆನೋವು ತಪ್ಪಿದೆ.

ಇವತ್ತು, ಸೂರ್ಯ 

ಯಾವ ದಿಕ್ಕಿನಲ್ಲಿ 

ಹುಟ್ಟಿದ್ದಾನೋ..

ಹೂವು ಅಂದವಾಗಿ 

ಅರಳಿವೆ.

ದಿನವೂ ಸಲೀಸಾಗಿ

ಸಾಗಿದೆ.

ವಿಧಿಯು ಕಲ್ಲೆಡವಿ

ಬಿದ್ದಿದೆ,

ಜಗವು ಕಿಲಕಿಲನೆ

ನಗುತಿದೆ.

House of Hearts

Beyond 

The confines of

Right and wrong.

There's a house.

Of neither white

Or black,

There's a cat. 

That doesn't cut

You on the road, 

Casting curses. 

There's a dog,

That doesn't bark

At your appearance. 

Bend to criticisms, 

Or wriggle its tail 

Snipping your

Affluence. 

Settled beyond 

The negations of

The crowd. 

There's a memory

Of an evening,

That laughed with

The day and the night. 

To console the

Green and saffron,

There is colour,

The white.

To calm down

Your anger and

Anxieties,

Pair of ears that

Can really listen. 

There are dreams,

Shared realizations.

Spread over

The divide of 

Differences... 

There is hunger, 

Which is such a 

Sympathizer.

There is even

A kitchen that 

Can serve both

Kheer and biryani. 

Egg-rice and

Avalakki. 

If you can shed 

Your wicked thoughts, 

Toxic perception 

And bitter judgments. 

To sit and chat for 

Some hearty laughs.

You too are 

Invited. 

Seeking

Anxiously, 

Why do my fingers

Keep measuring

The shade of 

The trees.

The moon seems

To be taking his time

To come up tonight.

.. 

Secretly, 

Why does my heart 

Keeps running,

Into her streets. 

No letters from her.

The winds seem to 

Always disappoints. 

.. 

And why have the

Stars abandoned

The sky.

The universe isn't 

Alight?

She usually does..

She usually does..

But hasn't she 

Opened her 

Windows tonight? 

.. 

Hunger

The huts and 

The houses haven't 

Been spared.

Even the forests

And mountains

Stand obliterated. 

Burning everything 

It touches, 

The fire, 

Can it be any more 

Hungry? 

.. 

The flames and

Hopes have been

Doused.

Even the stars 

And galaxies are

Eclipsed.

Gulping everything

That glows. 

The darkness,

Can it be anymore

Thirsty? 

.. 

Slowly it effaces

And erases.

All the evidence

Of existence,

Even the traces

Of breaths are

Done away with.

Creating voids,

In the memories. 

The oblivion, 

Can it be anymore 

Empty? 

.. 

Holding the fire

And the dark

Under the helm 

Of oblivion.

The Time, feasting, 

Even on the voids

And vaccums.. 

Isn't it the 

Real glutton? 

.. 

ಹಸಿವು

ಗಿಡ ಮರ ಗುಡ್ಡಗಳ

ಸುಟ್ಟು ತಿನ್ನಬಲ್ಲ 

ಆ ಬೆಂಕಿಗೆಷ್ಟು 

ಹಸಿವಿರಬಹುದು.

ಇದ್ದ ಬಿದ್ದ ಬೆಳಕ,

ಹರಿದ ಮುರಿದ‌ ಆಸೆಗಳ,

ನುಂಗಬಲ್ಲ ಆ‌ ಕತ್ತಲಿಗೆಷ್ಟು,

ಹಸಿವಿರಬಹುದು.

ನಿಂತು, ನೀರವತೆಗೆ 

ಕಾಯ್ದು.‌ ಪುರಾವೆಗಳ 

ಹೆಕ್ಕಿ ತಿಂದು.

ನೆನಪುಗಳ ಅಳಿಸುವ,

ಆ ಮರೆವಿನ ಹಸಿವು 

ಹೆಚ್ಚೋ?

ಅಥವಾ, ಬೆಂಕಿ-ಬೆಳಕ, 

ಮರೆವಿನ‌ ಸೂರಲ್ಲಿ ಸಾಕಿ.

ಅವುಗಳ ಮೇಲೆ,

ರಾರಾಜಿಸುವ..

ಆ‌‌ ಕಾಲಚಕ್ರದ

ಹಸಿವು ದೊಡ್ಡದೋ?

The Flow

Through the wild

And the kind.

I shall pass.

Through the times

And the rhymes.

I shall pass.

Through the mountains

And grasses.

Valleys and passes.

Through the crowds

And crevices.

And feeble horizons.

Like the thief

Who has lost his

Way.

Like a soldier

Who has forgotten

His face.

I shall bend, mend,

Sometimes

Meander and blend.

Rolling, falling, 

Slowing if 

Needed.

Ebbing, jumping, 

Striking if 

Demanded.

I shall pass

To make way,

I shall pass

To move ahead. 

I shall pass 

Because, I've to

Survive. 

Blankness

On the stillness

Of the lake lies

A blanket of 

Blankness. 

Birds are not

Allowed here.

Not stones.

Nor tones.

It's not like

The blank of

Canvas or 

A paper.

Where you

Can paint

Or write.

This blankness

Is self-imposing.

Life-consuming. 

Colors die here. 

Often, things 

Are forgotten. 

They fall within

Themselves. 

They implode,

To have themselves

Erased here. 

Sometimes

It's the dark.

Sometimes the

Eerie silence.

Can be oblivion

Or the blinding

White.

It can be you too,

Even me.. on

Those numb

Lonely nights. 

When we lay dead

On that thin line,

Not knowing

Whether we're

Awake or asleep. 

Dead or alive. 

You and I

On the eastern

Edge of western

Ghats.

Amidst the bustle

Of tall trees and

Green grass.

Beside a lake or

A small pond.

We shall build

A hut, 

You and I.

When the 

Herdsmen come 

Playing flutes 

And the hornbills 

Hoot to the 

Footsteps of the 

Sheep.

Picking them

Nuts and fruits,

We shall spend

Our days,

You and I. 

The running water

Of the river is

Sweet they say.

Tubers and roots

In the wild are 

No less than

A feast they say.

So we shall 

Befriend a beast.

Nurse something

Feeble and weak.

And confining all

Our secrets to

The whispers of

The trees.. 

We shall become, 

Those nameless 

Lovers in folklore,

You and I. 

Pretense

The flower that

Has bloomed,

Looking upto the sky,

Has forgotten the

Smell of soil.

To the false 

Promises of 

The moon and 

The stars. 

It has lost the 

Sense of where 

It belongs.

The leaves and

Twigs feel like

Restrains.

The foliage like

A prison it has 

Been held in. 

To the illusion

That is set in,

Should it mistaken

It's petals for 

Wings?

Who doesn't

Want to scale

The sky?

Knowing its

Limitations

Hasn't the Hen

Given up on

Its own flight?

Our flower has

Fallen in love

With its own

Reflection. 

Narcissistic pride

Has grown out

Of proportion. 

Unrealistic

Aspirations has

Messed its head, 

When it looked

Beyond  its roots 

And learnt to 

Pretend. 

Escape

The oasis 

I sought 

Out of thirst, 

Has dried up. 

The mirage

I overlooked

Must have been

A river.

The shelter

I longed all along,

Has been

Abandoned.

The ruins, 

I've been avoiding 

Must have been

A house I belonged. 

To get rid of

My ill fate,

I ran away from

Myself.

In a far-fetched 

Place where

No-one could be

Seen. 

I met anyone 

To everyone, 

To realize.

The toxic person

I was trying to 

Escape was hiding 

Within me. 

Hopes to Regrets

The light has
Quenched the dark.
New hopes have
Come to life.
To the songs
Of a nightingale.
Lilies have decided
To dance.

An old tree has
Fallen down to
Make a way to
A new plant.
A dream to
Open its eyes,
The possibilities
Seem infinite.

The child in me
Seems to have
Grown a beard,
Age has taken
Over time.
Days seemed
Hopelessly long.
Yet years have passed
In the blink of an eye.

The night has
Clocked twelve.
Shards of memories
Have returned back,
And my longing to
Drench in the rain.
The water has
Caught fire.

ಮರೆವು

ಉಕ್ಕಿ ಬಂದ 

ಹೃದಯದಲೆಗೆ,

ಕಡಲ ಉಸುಕು 

ಸವೆದಿದೆ.

ಹಾಲು-ಬೆಳಕ 

ಚೆಂದ ಇರುಳ,

ಕಪ್ಪು ಮೋಡ 

ಮುಸುಕಿದೆ.

ಹಾಯ್ದು ಹೋದ

ನೆನಪುಗಳೆಲ್ಲ

ಹಳೆ ಕಥೆಗಳ

ಕುಲುಕಲು.

ಮರೆಯಾಗಿದ್ದ,

ಕವಿತೆಗಳೆಲ್ಲ,

ಕಣ್ಣೀರಾಗಿ ಹೊರ 

ಹೊಮ್ಮಿವೆ.

Hurt

A philosopher is

Complaining in 

My head.

A rapper is 

About set an 

Obsolete trend.

Poet of fall.

Singer of a

Doomed dawn.

I'm a comedian

Who's being

Laughed at.

I for sure am

An astrologer

Banished by the stars.

Like a politician

Who talks less

And is kind.

An overthinking

Piece of charade.

A self-sabotaging

Kind of facade. 

On the surface

I look calm.

Take no offense,

Or mean harm.

But inside,

On myself, I stand

Holding a knife. 

Hurt people,

Hurt people,

They say. And 

If you come close, 

The knife can 

Turn around. 

ವಿನಂತಿ

ಮಿಡಿ ನೆನಪ

ಬೊಗಸೆಯಲಿ.

ತಿಳಿ ಬೆಳಕ 

ಕನಸಲಿ ಹಿಡಿದು,

ನಿನ್ನರಸಿರುವೆ.

ಬಯಕೆಯ 

ಬೇಗೆಯಿಂದ 

ನೋಡೊಮ್ಮೆ.

ಕತ್ತಲಿನಾಚೆಯ,

ಕ್ಷಣವೊಂದ 

ಕದಿಯೋದಿದೆ.

ಪ್ರೀತಿಯ 

ಪಣತೆಯಲಿ

ಪ್ರಣಯದ ಹಣತೆ

ಉರಿಸಿ.

ಹೊಸ ಜೀವನಕೆ

ನಾಂದಿ 

ಹಾಡೋದಿದೆ.

ನಗು

ತೆಂಕಣ ಗಾಳಿಯು

ಸುಯ್ಯೆಂದು ಬೀಸಿ,

ಚದುರಿದ ಮೋಡಗಳ

ಸೇರಿಸಿದೆ.

ಮೋಡಗಳೆಲ್ಲ ಸೇರಿ

ಒಟ್ಟಾರೆ ಗುಡುಗಲು,

ಮಳೆಯಾಗಿ ಕಿಸಿ-ಕಿಸಿ

ನಕ್ಕಿವೆ.

ತಣಿದ ನೆಲದಲಿ,

ಮೊಳಕೆಯೊಡೆದ

ಬೀಜವು, ಗಿಡವಾಗಿ 

ಸೆಟೆದು ನಿಂತಿದೆ.

ವಸಂತ ಬರಲು

ಅರಳಿದ ಮರಗಳು,

ಹೂವಾಗಿ ಕಿಸಿ-ಕಿಸಿ 

ನಕ್ಕಿವೆ.

ಸೊಬಗಿನ ಸೆಳೆತಕೆ,

ಮಾರುಹೋಗಿ

ಹಕ್ಕಿಗಳು, ರಾಗದಿ

ಹಾಡು ಹಾಡಿವೆ.

ಲಯವಾದ ಹಾಡು

ನಗುವಾಗಿ ಮುಗಿಲೇರಿ,

ಬೀಸುವ ಗಾಳಿಯ

ಸೇರಿದೆ.

ಬೀಸುತ ಬೀಸುತ

ಎಲ್ಲೆಡೆ ಹರಡಿ,

ಎಲ್ಲರ ಹಾಯಾಗಿ

ಮುದಿಸಿದೆ.

ಒಂದೆಡೆ ನಗುವ 

ಇನ್ನೊಂದೆಡೆ‌ ಹಬ್ಬಿ, 

ಗಾಳಿಯೂ ಕಿಸಿ-ಕಿಸಿ 

ನಕ್ಕಿದೆ.

ಅಮಲು

ಕನಸಿನ ಲೋಕಕೆ

ವಾಸ್ತವ ಸಿಲುಕಿ,

ಮಂಚಕೆ ರೆಕ್ಕೆ 

ಬಂದಿದೆ.

ಮೇಲಿಂದ ಕೆಳಗೆ

ಧೋಪ್ ಎಂದು 

ಬೀಳಲು, 

ನೌಕೆಯಾಗಿ ತೇಲಿದೆ.

ಅಂಬಿಗ‌ ತವಕದಿ

ಹುಟ್ಟನು ಹಾಕಿದ,

ನೀರೆಲ್ಲ ಹುಗ್ಗಿ

ಆಗಿದೆ.

ಹಬ್ಬದ ಊಟದ

ಬಯಕೆ ಹುಡುಗನಿಗೆ, 

ಅಮಲಿನಲೆ ಆಸೆ 

ನೀಗಿದೆ.

ಸಂತೆ

ಮಾತುಗಳಿಲ್ಲದ,

ಮರುಭೂಮಿಯಲಿ

ಮೌನದ ಹೆಮ್ಮರ.

ಭಾವನೆಗಳಿಲ್ಲದ

ಬಯಲನಲಿ,

ಉದ್ವೇಗದ ಪರಿಮಳ.

ಮುಖಗಳೇ ಇಲ್ಲದ

ಜಾತ್ರೆ ಇದು,

ನಗುವೇ ಇಲ್ಲಿ ಅಪಸ್ವರ.

ಗಮ್ಯವಿಲ್ಲದ 

ದಾರಿಯಲ್ಲೇಕಿದೆ

ಇಷ್ಟೊಂದು ಗದ್ದಲ?

ಕಳೆದು ಹೋದವರ

ಸಂತೆಯಲಿ, ನಿಂತು 

ನಕ್ಕವನೇ ಜಂಗಮ.

Give it a try

A mountain 

Might be wanting

You to climb it.

To see you gasp. 

The rain might

Be wanting you

Make your moves.

To see you dance.

Fear of the dark

Might just be

The delusion your

Mind has cast.

Who knows what

The devil wants.

He must have been

Waiting for you

To light a match.

A poem might

Be wanting to

Fall suitably in

Your lines.

A story might be

Wanting to take

Refuge in your

Diary all along. 

The distance of

Longing, might 

Just as well be

Deceit of mortal eyes.

Who knows what 

She might say.

Hurl a smile and 

Give her a try.

The Wait

I wait for her.

Sometimes outside

My home.

Sometimes within

The contours

Of my brain.

Sometimes in 

What's app and

Sometimes in a

Longing that's 

Invoked by shadows

Of origami cast.

I wait for her,

On the brink of 

Fantasies I crave.

In the blink of

Moments I save.

Piece of me sits

On a chair.

Another on the 

Slow rotating fan.

A shattered little

One waits from

Behind the bookshelf.

From between

Unwritten letters,

Typecast feelings,

Half eaten roti

And an unopened

Diary. 

A couple more

Peep out for signs

Of her arrival.

And the days 

Have passed 

Without consequence.

Months and years.

As my reflection

Stands wearing

Concentric wrinkles,

Like I'm a

Worn-out tree.

As the moons die,

Oceans dry,

Time stands aged

And stars fall broken.

The signs haven't

Been dandy yet.

The wait hasn't

Come to rest.

Good day

On a good day,

The fire is afraid

Of burning itself.

The huts have

Been saved.

Water is scared

Of cutting through

The ground.

The farmers have 

Been graced.

The storm has

Contained itself,

And the sailors 

Feel blessed.

And on a 

Good day like this..

As the sun shines

Bright.

And the flowers 

Bloom fine.

The fate has 

Tumbled off a rock

And everyone is

Having a good laugh.

Transcendence

Don't try,

To force

Your thoughts,

Against fragility

Of words.

Till they fit into

A noose and

Die dry on a

Sheet of paper.

Don't try,

To milk your

Emotion into

A jar of pretense.

Till they choke

Under a charade

And fail to evoke

Any real feeling 

Off them.

Let it come to

You like a 

Feeble caress of

A lover.

Let it come to

You like a 

Gentle brush

Of wind.

When you sit

Aloof and as she

Passes by in

Your mind like

A fagrance.

If a tiny spark

In your mind,

Materializes into

A thought to

Fall in love with

A word.

Maybe then.

Maybe then

Pick up that pen

To trace the

Transcendent

Line.

ಅಭಿವ್ಯಕ್ತಿ

ಒಂದು ಗುಂಜಿ

ಶಬ್ದರಾಶಿಗೆ, ಸಾವಿರ

ರುಪಾಯಿ ಅಂತೆ ಈಗೀಗ..

ಹಣದುಬ್ಬರದ ತಡೆಗೆ

ನಾಯಕರ ಆಶ್ವಾಸನೆ-

ಎಲ್ಲರ ಬಾಯಿಗೆ ಬೀಗ.

ಆರ್ಥಿಕ ಹಿನ್ನೆಡೆಗೆ

ಅಭಿವ್ಯಕ್ತಿಯೇ, 

ಕಾರಣವಂತೆ‌ 

ಸೂತ್ರಗಳ ಪ್ರಕಾರ.

ಕಣ್ಣೀರಿಡುವುದೂ

ದುಬಾರಿ ವ್ಯವಹಾರ.

ಈರುಳ್ಳಿ ಬೆಲೆ ಅದಕೆ

ಮುಗಿಲೇರಿದೆ ಈಗೀಗ.

Aspirations

The sky wants to

Be painted in red.

The river wants to

Fall off an edge.

The wolves howl

To be tamed,

And dogs want a

Salary raise.

The tiger is 

Athirst,

But water is not 

Enough. 

A feast on a 

Live deer, might 

That be right

To thaw its rage?

Held in a 

Similar page.

Brooding in just 

Another cage.

You think you too

Are the same but

That's a blatant 

Charade.

ಸಾಕ್ಷಿ

ಕುಂಟು ಆಸೆಗೆ,

ಎಂಟು ಸುಳ್ಳಿನ

ಸಾಕ್ಷಿ.

ಗುಂಟೆ ಜಮೀನಿಗೆ

ಹಂಡೆ ಸೊಕ್ಕಿನ 

ಸಾಕ್ಷಿ.

..

ಬಂಡ ಬದುಕಿಗೆ

ಅಂಟಿದ ಶನಿಯ

ಸಾಕ್ಷಿ.

ಇರಿದ ಹೋರಿಗೆ

ಹರಿದ ಕುಂಡಿ

ಸಾಕ್ಷಿ.

..

ತುಂಟ ಕವಿತೆಗೆ

ಮಿಂಡ ಗಂಡನ

ಸಾಕ್ಷಿ.

ಗಿಂಡಿ ಐಶ್ವರ್ಯಕ್ಕೆ

ತಂಟೆ ತಕರಾರಿನ

ಸಾಕ್ಷಿ.

..

ಜಗದ ಉಳಿವೇ

ಅರಿವಿನ ಮಾಯೆ.

ಅಳಿವು ಮರೆವಿನ

ಛಾಯೆ.

ನಾಲ್ಕಾಣೆ ಮನುಷ್ಯನ

ಎರಡಾಣೆ ಬದುಕಿನ

ಕ್ಷಣಿಕ ಶಾಶ್ವತೆಗೆ..

ನಶ್ವರ ಅನಂತವೇ

ಸಾಕ್ಷಿ.

..

ಹರೆಯ

ತೊಳಲಾಟ,

ಹೊರಳಾಟ.

ಕೆರಳಿದ ಒಲವಿನ

ಕೂಗಿಗೆ..

ತರ್ಕಕ್ಕೆ ಸಿಗದ

ಸೆಣಸಾಟ.

ತೇಲಾಟ,

ತೂಗಾಟ.

ಹರೆಯ ಅಬ್ಬರಕ್ಕೆ 

ತತ್ತರಿಸಿ.

ಹಾರ್ಮೋನುಗಳ

ರಂಪಾಟ.

ನೂಕಾಟ,

ಪೀಕಲಾಟ.

ಜಿಗುಟಿನ ಈ

ಒಗಟು ಬಿಡಿಸಲು,

ಇಂದ್ರೀಯಗಳ

ದೊಂಬರಾಟ.

ಭಾಸ

ದೂರದ ಊರಲ್ಲಿ

ಯಾರದೋ ಒಂದು

ನೋಟ ಕದ್ದ ಭಾಸ.

ಯಾವದೋ ಕಥೆಯ

ಕೊನೆಯ ಅಧ್ಯಾಯದ

ಮರೆತ ಗದ್ಯವಾದ ಭಾಸ.

..

ಮಾತುಗಳ ಬತ್ತಿದ

ಮರುಭೂಮಿಯಲಿ,

ಮೌನ ಬಿತ್ತಿದ ಭಾಸ.

ಮುಖಗಳೇ ಇಲ್ಲದ

ಜಾತ್ರೆಯಲಿ,

ಮುಖವಾಡವಾದ ಭಾಸ.

..

ಭಾವನೆಗಳ ಮರೆತ

ಬದುಕಿನಲಿ,

ಉದ್ವೇಗ ನೆಟ್ಟ ಭಾಸ.

ಪಾತ್ರಗಳೇ ಇಲ್ಲದ

ಕಪಟ ನಾಟಕದ, 

ನಿರೂಪಕನಾದ ಭಾಸ.

..

ಏನೋ ಪಡೆಯಲು

ಓಡಿ ಹೋಗಿ, ಸಿಗದೇ

ಸೋತು ನಿಂತ ಭಾಸ.

ಗಮ್ಯವೇ ಇಹದ

ಪಯಣದಲಿ.

ಮನೆ ಹುಡುಕುತ,

ನನ್ನಲಿ ನಾನೇ..

ಅಲೆಮಾರಿಯಾದ ಭಾಸ.

..

ಕಾಲ ಚಕ್ರ

ಅಂಧಕಾರದಿ

ಬೆಳಕು ನುಗ್ಗಿದೆ.

ಹೊಸ ಆಸೆಗಳು

ಚಿಗುರಿವೆ.

ವಸಂತದ‌ ಕೋಗಿಲೆ

ಹಾಡು ಹಾಡಲು,

ಮುದುಡಿದ ತಾವರೆ

ಅರಳಿದೆ.

ಒಣಗಿದ ಮರ

ಉರುಳಿದೆ.

ಹೊಸದೊಂದು 

ಜೀವ ಹುಟ್ಟಿದೆ.

ಕನಸೊಂದು

ಕಣ್ಣ್ ತೆರೆಯಲು,

ಅನಂತವೇ,

ಅಂಗೈಯಲಿ ಸಿಕ್ಕಿದೆ.

ಮೊನ್ನೆ ತಾನೆ

ಸಣ್ಣವನಿದ್ದೆ.

ಕೂದಲೀಗ,

ಬಿಳಿಯಾಗಿವೆ.

ದಿನಗಳ ಕಳೆವುದು

ಕಷ್ಟವಾದರೂ,

ವರ್ಷಗಳು ಸರ್ರನೆ

ಜಾರಿವೆ.

ರಾತ್ರಿ

ಹನ್ನೆರಡಾಗಿದೆ.

ಪುಡಿ ನೆನಪುಗಳು

ಮರಳಿವೆ.

ಒಲವು ಮಳೆಯಲಿ 

ನೆನೆಯಲು,

ನೀರೆ, ಧಗ-ಧಗ‌ 

ಉರಿದಿದೆ.

Other Side

Roses want to

Chit-chat but 

No-one wants to

Talk.

Beetles want to

Have a blast.

No-one is ready

To laugh. 

Butterflies,

Forgot all their

Songs to fly away 

In the sky. 

Elephants gave up 

On Spelling-Bee 

To join a

Circus instead. 

Grass is

Greener on the 

Other side

They say..

Some left the

Mainland for

The lure of the

Coastal breeze.

While many

Unfurled their

Sails to persue

Similar dreams.

ಕಾಣದ ಕಡಲು

ಗುಲಾಬಿಗೆ, ಚಾಡಿ

ಹೇಳುವ ಬಯಕೆ.

ಕೇಳುವರಾರಿಲ್ಲ.

ಚಿಟ್ಟೆಗೆ,‌ 

ಕೇಕೆ ಹಾಕುವ ಆಸೆ.

ನಗುವರಾರಿಲ್ಲ.

ಕೋಗಿಲೆ ಹಾಡು

ಮರೆತು,‌ ಹಾರುವುದ

ಕಲೆತಿದೆ.

ಆನೆ‌ ಘೀಳಿಡುವುದ

ಬಿಟ್ಟು,

ಸರ್ಕಸ್ ಸೇರಿದೆ.

ಕಾಣದ‌ ಕಡಲ

ಸೇರುವ ಆಸೆ 

ಎಲ್ಲರಿಗೂ..

ಕಡಲ ತೀರವೇ

ಬೇಸರವಾದ

ಬಡ್ಡಿಮಕ್ಳಿಗಿದೆಯಾ.. 

ನೌಕೆಯ ಸವಲತ್ತು?

ತಾಳ್ಮೆ

ತಿಳಿ‌ ಸಂಜೆಯ‌ ಮುಸುಕು

ಬಾನಿಗೇರಿದೆ.

ಸುತ್ತಿ ಸೋತು ಧೂಳು

ಎಲೆಗಳ ಮುತ್ತಿದೆ.

ಹಲ್ಲಿನ ಬಿಗಿತವ,

ಉಸಿರಿಗೂ ತಿಳಿಸದೆ.

ಅಚಲ ಹಿಡಿತದಿ,

ಮರೆಯಲ್ಲಿ ಕುಳಿತಿದೆ.

ಹುಲಿ, ಬೇಟೆಗೆ

ಕಾಯುತಿದೆ.

ಹಸಿದ ಕಂಗಳಲ್ಲಿ

ಕೋಪ ಕುದಿಯುತಿದೆ.

ಕಾಯುದೊಂದೆ ಅದರ 

ತಲೆಯಲ್ಲಿದೆ.

ತಾಳ್ಮೆ, ಪಂಜಿಗಿಂತಲೂ,

ಮಾರಣಾಂತಿಕ ಎಂದು

ಅದಕೆ‌ ತಿಳಿದಿದೆ.

ಆಪತ್ತಿನ ನಿರೀಕ್ಷೆಯಲಿ,

ಕಾಗೆಗಳು ಶೆಟೆದು 

ಶಾಂತವಾಗಿವೆ.

ನಿಟ್ಟುಸಿರಿಗೆ,

ಸುತ್ತಲಿನ ನೊಣಗಳು,

ಬೆಂದು‌ ಬೆಂಡಾಗಿವೆ.

ದೂರದಲ್ಲೆಲ್ಲೋ,

ತೋಳವೊಂದು ಕೂಗುತಿದೆ.

ಪರಿಸ್ಥಿತಿಯ ಗಾಂಭೀರ್ಯ

ಅದಕ್ಕೆ ಮಾತ್ರ ತಿಳಿದಿದೆ.

ಬೇರಾವ ಪ್ರಾಣಿಗೂ,

ಪಿಸುಗುಡಲೂ ಧೈರ್ಯವಿಲ್ಲ.

ಇವತ್ತಿನ ರಾತ್ರಿಯೂಟಕ್ಕೆ

ಬೇಟೆ ಅವುಗಳಾಗ ಬೇಕಿಲ್ಲ.

ಜೀವ ಹೋಗುವ ಮುನ್ನವೇ,

ಸೂತಕದ ಛಾಯೆ ಆವರಿಸಿದೆ.

ರಣ-ಬೇಟೆಗಾರನ ಹಸಿವಿಗೆ

ಇಡೀ ಕಾಡೇ‌ ಶರಣಾಗಿದೆ.

Post-Nut Clarity

To be or 

Not to be

Is a different kind

Of sanity.

You either have it,

Or you don't.

There's nothing

Called vanity.

You may brand

This generalisation,

As a flawed

Philosophy.

But I know, 

You'll be convinced.

If I tell you,

It's just

Post-nut clarity.

Dead Words

We don't talk

These days.

Yet some silence

Lurks around,

In bits and pieces,

In Appeal.

We don't see 

Each other

These days.

Yet this longing

Hangs tight

Like a hungry bird

Poised to peck.

Memories of your

Scent.

Creases of your 

Skin. 

It's hard to sit

Idle with you 

All-over my head.

So I try to force

My thoughts,

Into fragility of

Some words. 

They eventually

Fall prey,

To fit into a noose 

And die dry on a 

Sheet of paper.

There's nothing

Blander than 

Watching dead words

And I'm swimming

In the smoke of 

My own funeral pyre.

ಅವ್ವ

ಇವತ್ತು ಶನಿವಾರ.

ತಾನು ಉಪವಾಸ ಇದ್ದರೂ,

ಒಲೆ ಉರಿಸಿದಳು, 

ಅವ್ವ ರೊಟ್ಟಿ ಬಡೆದಳು.

ಮೊನ್ನೆ ಹುಷಾರಿರಲಿಲ್ಲ.

ಎದ್ದು ಕೂರಲಾಗದಷ್ಟು ಜ್ವರ.

ಆದರೂ ಹಿಟ್ಟು ನಾದಿದಳು.

ಪಲ್ಯ ಮಾಡಿದಳು.

ಕೆಲವು ತಿಂಗಳ ಹಿಂದೆ

ಅವಳ ಬೆಳ್ಳಿ ಹಬ್ಬ.

ಬಂಧುಗಳು, ಕೆಲವು ಆಪ್ತರು

ಹರಿಸಲು ಬಂದಿದ್ದರು.

ಉಡುಗೊರೆ ತಂದಿದ್ದರು.

ಔತನಕೂಟದ ಸಾರಥ್ಯ,

ಅವಳದೇ.

ಆವತ್ತೂ ರಜೆ ಸಿಕ್ಕಿರಲಿಲ್ಲ.

ಅನ್ನ ಬೇಯಿಸುವುದನ್ನು

ಮರೆತಿರಲಿಲ್ಲ.

ಹಬ್ಬ ಹರಿದಿನಗಳಲ್ಲಿ,

ಮದುವೆ, ಮುಂಜಿಗಳಲ್ಲೂ,

ಈ ರಗಳೆ ತಪ್ಪಿದ್ದಲ್ಲ.

ಅವಳ ಪಾಕಶಾಲೆಯಲಿ,

ಗೈರು ಹಾಜರಿಗೆ ಜಾಗವಿಲ್ಲ.

ನನ್ನನ್ನು ಹಡಿದಾಗಲೂ,

ಒಲೆ ಉರಿಸಿದ್ದಳಂತೆ.

ಅವಳು ಹುಟ್ಟಿದಾಗಲೂ ಅವಳೇ

ಅಡುಗೆ ಮಾಡಿದ್ದಳೇನೊ.

ಅಪ್ಪ ಬೈದಾಗಲೂ,

ನಾ ಸಿಟ್ಟಾದಾಗಲೂ.

ಅಜ್ಜಿ ಜೊತೆ ಜಗಳವಾದರೂ,

ಉಪ್ಪು ಜಾಸ್ತಿಯಾಗಲಿಲ್ಲ.

ಕಾರ್ಪೊರೇಟ್ ಕಟ್ಟಡಗಳು,

ಸ್ವಯಂಚಾಲಿತ ಯಂತ್ರಗಳು,

ಸ್ತ್ರೀವಾದಿ ಚಳುವಳಿಗಳು.

ಅಡುಗೆ ಮನೆ ಹೊಸ್ತಿಲು ದಾಟಿಲ್ಲ.

ಅವಳನ್ನ ತಡೆಯಲಾಗಿಲ್ಲ.

ಮಹಾ ಯುದ್ಧಗಳು,

ಪ್ರವಾಹ ಪ್ರಳಯಗಳೂ,

ಅವಳ ಸ್ಥಿರತೆಯನ್ನ

ಕುಗ್ಗಿಸಲಾಗಿಲ್ಲ.

ಅವ್ವ ಯಾರನ್ನೂ ಖಾಲಿ

ಹೊಟ್ಟೆಯಲಿ ಮಲಿಗಿಸಿಲ್ಲ.

ಮುಂದೊಂದು ದಿನ

ಅವಳು ಅಸುನೀಗಿದರೂ,

ಅವಳ ತಿಥಿ ಊಟ ಅವಳೇ 

ಮಾಡುವಂತಾದೀತೇನೊ.

ಬಹುಶಃ‌ ಜಗತ್ತಿಗೆ 

ನಮ್ಮವ್ವ ಉಣಬಡಿಸುವ 

ಕೊನೆಯ ಅಡುಗೆ ಅದೇ ಏನೋ.

Glance

The cheeks of the 

Skies, been intoxicated 

By the Damsels of 

Rhymes.

The gushing winds 

Have been tamed by 

The Daisies of

Scented chimes. 

The moon was too

Mellow and the

Jasmines have

Tamed him tonight.

Lavenders have

Replaced the stars,

Roses been luminiscent

For quite some time.

Bless us with your

Elegance dear love.

The laurels are 

Forever waiting..

For the lullabies

Of your glance.

Conspiracy

Does the silence 

Know about the 

Scream of the words?

The paper be aware

Of the bondage as

We write?

A tiny pebble has sent 

A rippled storm across 

A sea that was calm.

The vast darkness,

Is now afraid of the oblivion 

It might face by a spark. 

Does the emptiness know?

About the conspiracy of

Rampaging thoughts?

Even god's existence

Has bounced off from 

The fragility of human mind. 

ಪಶ್ಚಾದರಿವು

ನೀರಡಿಕೆಯಲಿ ಹುಡುಕುತ 

ಹೋದ ಕೆರೆ, ಬತ್ತಿ ಹೋಗಿತ್ತು.

ಮುಂಚೆ ಕಂಡ ಮರೀಚಿಕೆ,

ನದಿಯಾಗಿತ್ತೆ?

ಆಸರೆ ಬಯಸಿ ತಲುಪಿದ

ಸೂರು, ಬಿದ್ದು ಹೋಗಿತ್ತು.

ತಿರಸ್ಕರಿಸಿ ಬಂದ‌ ಪಾಳು

ಮನೆಯಾಗಿತ್ತೆ?

ಅಂಟಿಕೊಂಡ‌ ದಾರಿದ್ರ್ಯ 

ಕಳೆಯಲು,

ನನ್ನಿಂದ ನಾನೇ ಓಡಿದೆ.

ಯಾರೂ ಕಾಣದ‌ ದೂರದ 

ಊರಲಿ, 

ಯಾರ್ಯಾರೋ ಸಿಕ್ಕರು.

ತ್ಯಜಿಸಿ ಬಂದ ಆ ಅಯೊಗ್ಯ 

ನಾನೇ ಆಗಿದ್ದೆನೆ?

ಪೊಗರು

ಮುಗಿಲ ನೋಡುತ 

ಬೆಳೆದ ಹೂವು,

ಮಣ್ಣಿನ ವಾಸನೆ ಮರೆತಿದೆ.

ನೀಲಾಕಾಶದ ಜೊಳ್ಳು 

ಆಮಿಷಕೆ,

ಗಿಡದ ಹಂಗು ತೊರೆದಿದೆ.

ರೆಂಬೆ ಕೊಂಬೆಗಳೇ

ಪಂಜರ ವಾಗಿವೆ ಇದಕೆ.

ಅದ್ಯಾವ ಅಮಲಿನಲಿ 

ತೇಲುತಿಹುದೋ,

ದಳಗಳೇ ರೆಕ್ಕೆಗಳೆಂದು 

ತಿಳಿದಿದೆ.

ಬಾನ ಏರಿಗೆ, 

ಏಣಿ ಹಾಕಲು 

ಇಷ್ಟ ಇಲ್ಲ ಯಾರಿಗೆ?

ರೆಕ್ಕೆ ಇದ್ದರೂ ಸುಮ್ಮನಿಲ್ಲವೆ,

ಅದರ ಮಿತಿ‌ ತಿಳಿದ

ಕೋಳಿಯೆ?

ತನ್ನ ವಾಸನೆಗೆ ತಾನೇ

ಮಾರುಹೋದ,

ಕುಂಟು ಸೊಕ್ಕು ನಮ್ಮ

ಹೂವಿಗೆ.

ಮೀಸೆ ಬಂದಾಗ, 

ದೇಶ ಕಾಣದು.

ಮೊಲೆಯೂ ಬಂದಿದೆಯೇ?

ಈ ಲೌಡಿಗೆ.

ಶೂನ್ಯ

ಮೌನಕ್ಕೆ ತಿಳಿದಿದೆಯೇ,

ಮಾತುಗಳ ರಗಳೆಯು.

ಬಿಳಿ ಹಾಳೆಗೆ ಪರಿಚಯವೇ,

ಅಕ್ಷರಗಳ ಬಿಗಿತವು.

ಕಿಡಿಯೊಂದರ ಕೆಚ್ಚನ್ನು

ಅಂಧಕಾರವು ಕಡೆಗಣಿಸಲು..

ಕಲ್ಲೊಂದರ ತವಕದಿ ಚದುರಿದೆ,

ಅಚಲ ಸಾಗರದ ಶಾಂತತೆಯು.

ಮನಸ್ಸೆಂಬ ಖಾಲಿ ಪಾತ್ರೆಯಲಿ 

ಕುಣಿದ, ಕುಂಟು ಕಲ್ಪನೆಯ ಆರ್ಭಟಕೆ..

ದೇವ ದಾನವರ ಅಸ್ತಿತ್ವವನ್ನೇ

ಹೊತ್ತಿದೆ, ನಂಬಿಕೆಯ ದಾರವು.

ಶೂನ್ಯಕ್ಕೆ ತಿಳಿದಿದೆಯೇ?

ಭಾವನೆಗಳ, ಈ ಹಾದರವು.

ಜುಗಲ್ಬಂದಿ

ಸುಡು ಬಿಸಿಲಿಗೆ

ಅಡ್ಡಲಾಗಿ ನಿಂತು..

ಮೂಡಿದ ನೆರಳನು,

ಸಂಜೆವರೆಗೂ

ವರ್ಧಿಸಿ, ತ್ವರಿತಗೊಳಿಸಿ,

ಆಕಾಶದ,

ಅನಂತಕ್ಕೆಸೆದವು..

ಚೊಗಚಿ‌ ಮರಗಳು.

ಬೆಳಗಾಗುತ್ತಿದ್ದಂತೆ.

ಬ್ರಹ್ಮಾಂಡದ 

ಆ ಕಡೆಯಿಂದ

ಉತ್ತರ ಬಂತು.

ತಿಳಿ ಮುಂಜಾವಿನಲಿ

ಸೆಟೆದು ನಿಂತ,

ಚೊಗಚಿ‌ ಮೇಲಿತ್ತು

ಕತ್ತಲೆಯ ಕಣ್ಣು.

ಮಧ್ಯಾಹ್ನನದ ವರೆಗೆ

ಮತ್ತೆ ಬಿಗಿಯಾಗಿತ್ತು,

ನೆರಳಿನ ವರ್ಚಸ್ಸು.

Translation of Recovery by

A R Ammons

Smiles

Guns are for the weak,

Pens are for the meek. 

The real machoism lies

In the eyes..

That's why girls slay

Us with their smiles. 

ನೆನಪುಗಳು

ಜೋಪಾನವಾಗಿ 

ಕಾಯ್ದಿರಿಸಿದ

ಸಿಹಿ ನೆನಪುನಳು 

ಕಹಿಯಾಗಿವೆ.

ರಾತ್ರಿ ಕರೆದ

ಕೆನೆ ಕೆನೆ ಕವಿತೆಗಳು,

ಹೆಪ್ಪಾಗಿವೆ.

ಅವಳ ನೆನಪುಗಳೇ 

ಹಾಗೆ.

ಮೈ ಮರೆಸಿ,

ಹುಳಿ‌ ಹಿಂಡಿ ಬಿಡುತ್ತವೆ.

Logic

All logic ends in the

Middle of the kitchen.

Where arguments with

My wife often begin.

Wall paint in small

Bottles, to apply

On the face can

Cost a fortune.

While the theory of 

The earth being flat 

Is sold at the worth 

Of a Brinjal.

Einstein must have

Died waiting in a 

Shopping mall before

Proposing relativity.

Van Gogh must have

Sliced his Is ear in protest.

He didn't have a wife.

But I understand the

Emotion.

Use your head 

For once, I said 

Out of frustration.

She did. 

Poured all her logic,

To make a point.

Earth didn't quake.

Her head didn't explode.

But she got to dictate

Her terms again.

Starting with

I volunteering to

To drain my scotch

Down the toilet.

Recycling

Lies in gold-foils

Are spoils of war..

Offered, out of pity

To the young widows..

Saying everything

Is fair in war.

Pics with filters,

Pretentious poses.

Fix your nose,

Mind your tone.

Burning fat is more

Important in love.

So are fake promises,

With red roses.

Possibility of love 

Going wrong 

Shall not be talked.

Healing is banned.

A band aid for heart

Is time. 

But wasting time

Is not advisable.

As recycling is 

Harmful to capitalism.

Diwane

Unke naram zubaan se 

Aise lafz nikle,

Ki phoot pade hai 

Khayalon ke gubbare.

Hoton se aise teer

Cahalaye hai jaise

Khamosh zakmo pe

Thande angare.

Shaitan bhi tik na

Paye, Lazawab,

Hai unke tej

Nigaahe.

Hum toh phir bhi

Insaan hai..

Ek jhalak kaafi thi..

Fana hai..

Hum pagal diwane.

ಅರೇಂಜ್ಡ್ ಮ್ಯಾರೇಜ್

ಅದು ದೇವರ 

ಜಗುಲಿಯಲಿ

ಮೈತಾಗಿ ಹುಟ್ಟಿದ ಒಲವೋ.

ಇರುಳ ತಂಪಿನಲಿ,

ದೆವ್ವಗಳ‌ ಅಣಕಿಸಿ,

ಪಿಸುಗುಟ್ಟ ಸಲುಗೆಯೊ?

ಜಿಗಿ ಜಿಗಿದು 

ಹಿತ್ತಲ ಹಾಳು ಮಾಡಿದ 

ಮಂಗನ ಮೇಲಿನ, 

ಜಂಟಿ ವೈರತ್ವವೂ 

ಇರಬಹುದು.

ಗಿಡದ ದೈತ್ಯಾಕಾರಕ್ಕೆ,

ಹೂವು ಹೆದರಿಲ್ಲ.

ಒಂದು ಸಾರಿಯೂ

ಅದರ ಮೇಲೆ,

ಕಾಯಿ ಬೀಳಲಿಲ್ಲ.

ಪ್ರೀತಿಯೋ..

ಸ್ನೇಹವೋ..

ಒಂದು ಕಾಕತಾಳೀಯ

ಬೇಕೆಂಬ ಊಹೆಯೋ.

ಒಟ್ಟು, ಹಿತ್ತಲಿನ 

ಬಟ್ಟಲ ಹೂವಿಗೂ,

ಗಿಡದಲ್ಲಿನ ತೆಂಗಿಗೂ,

ಏನೋ ಒಂದು 

ನಂಟು..

ಚಳಿಗಾಲ ಶುರುವಾಗಿದೆ

ನಡೆಯಿರಿ,

ಹಾಕೋಣ ಅವುಗಳಿಗೆ

ಗಂಟು.