Channel is not a perfume

In the hotel ,on the Dover beach, the Honeymooner tells his girl: come to the window and see the lights glimmer on the French side of the channel.

He does not mean the channel perfume .How the sea of faith has ebbed, how the armies clash in the confusion of the night.

He is reminding how the Aegian sea once reminded Sophocles about the rising tide of human misery. How the sea has ebbed , how it has closed.




I follow fragments of a phone conversation .It is all about a fragment disowning another. The fragment has to dissociate itself from another. A fragment of a paper has to prove its DNA , it’s otherness.Fragments are not responsible for others’ fragments . Surely some other wholeness is responsible for the fragments .

We are here to prove we belong to the wholeness.Our fragments lie in broken body state .Our bodies are straining to remain wholes while our minds are breaking away from their whole. They are trying to maintain their separateness .

Our words are fragments of a digital past .We break away from them at the end of our stanzas ,our D.N.A s leaving their fragments for other fragments. Our poems are fragments of stanzas , our end-lines broken loose ends.


Thank god , we are independent.We are our own independent torsos, bathing in rivers dirty by other torsos.(after white torsos had left our shores to fight their own independent wars leaving them pale as impaled moons.)

We thank our bare chested grandfather who had made us independent men, a fine wet mass of river dipping torsos.

The old aunt

The struggle went on, inside of her with people, forces of nature, mind pitted against an old body that raged in pallid fury. Food came out as water in running car as we drove to people for reluctant homes.

The struggle was against people who would not cede ground for her in their space. Not well in the body, yet she struggled like a desperate bear in the forest hole in a net of latticed shadows in the hole as it closed around her body with people watching from the rim of the earth-hole.

The struggle would go on till the desert-show was finally over under the star-lit theater and men would get up and go their homes with a few memories for night-dreams.

Five senses

Fleeting truths lie in five senses each naysaying what other has found to be only truth, all making no joint sense except a temporary truth ,an away truth, a far truth,a more near, less of truth in their joint light, a night.

The five of them now lie through their joint teeth. It is the only truth, so far yet near, only to seem drifting , bubbles formed to break and dissolve ,moments dissolved soon in the enormity of night.


We saw ourselves, a rod travelling on rails falling off  because it was not shape enough for the rails.We looked at the dark promontory of a day’s night and that made us dizzy, so many stars , so much time. Time sucked us in, our life in a limbo when we walked jauntily. We slept with our eyes open ,our breath slowly being taken away.We were alive like the dinosaur that had existed in the wild plains and now lives in this hall, sprawled in white bones as time stretches. The very bones that had lived before we came.

Our  own bones wept for their dust and the rivers they have to float in to reach the sea. The mathematics of blood that went haywire, as their zeroes on the left went multiplying infinitely .Nothing really mattered , not even the hair on our head that stood erect in tribute to the magnificence of the dome.And  the dome went on endlessly abolishing our body, the bodies in the heavens and  embraced the mindlessness of being a stone , a mere flicker in space.

Our journey began. Nearer  death we are now a rod on the rails that lost its shape. Our rails will continue their journey with other rods that still have their shapes, until they too will  lose their shapes.


A hundred decaying faces from plastic chairs outside the restaurant hall slowly look at you as saviors for the bored bums and big mouths. Their numbered slip is now a few places ahead.

Look and see, we are now sufficiently decayed and we are waiting for our grand decomposition.These people are now ahead by a few numbers and are waiting in their bored eyes for their own.

Inside we have seen our food disintegrating, home to a colony of organisms busy decaying our faces ,our stomachs, our women, our kids.The lentils soup is friendly to our slurping faces.The hotel’s yesterdays have decayed it enough.