Come to the darkness of the confessional above the parapet wall, in the sky beyond the waving of trees , some rustling papers ,below the basement of yesterday’s school and touch the poets, between their words, between folds and smell their moth balls where they had lain tucked in their sheets.

Write chunks of white poetry on black night. Your poetry must be of your narcissistic self morbidly touching the way the tree waves in your darkness, a schoolgirl laughs in sleep ,over yesterday’s homework in a waving paper below a basement, between pictures of gods.

Poetry is confessional, some redness in face looking into crevices to let things not sleep. But sleep alone will deliver up your confession as you turn to your side to face a blank wall where beginning , middle are not pictured and the end turns out to be a breath, a lack .


We play on fine sensibility and logic. We look in spaces between our words and words are best approximations. Now we play along with the artists who had their own approximations that tended to infinity not stopping.

They reach approximate pie value but not its core beauty that is truth deep in ocean, surrounded by tiger. The tiger is meager approximation in a blue ocean with a rocking boat while the parents tended to infinity.

Beauty is not truth, only tends to it ,when you divide it by your nothing. Like parents it tends to your infinity. Your truth is infinity’s not stopping, tending to it, divided by your zero, the spaces in words lapsed in time.

(recalling the beautiful movie The Life of A Pie)

How to turn dust at twilight

Here we sit before the body in this room’s corner ,crumbling into its first dust with leaves of dust alive in its mouth.

This is our memento mori ,our dress rehearsal for our own return to dust . Our first object lesson on how to be an object before we return to dust.

We are waiting for this body’s dusty daughter to reach this room corner. Before we get down to its dusty business .

The cow dust is returning home .This is our memento mori, our lesson on how to turn dust at twilight.

Expecting a visitor who never comes

(There too, as everywhere, I sometimes expected the Visitor who never comes. The Vishnu Purana says, ‘The house-holder is to remain at eventide in his courtyard as long as it takes to milk a cow, or longer if he pleases, to await the arrival of a guest.’ I often performed this duty of hospitality, waited long enough to milk a whole herd of cows, but did not see the man approaching from the town.

-Thoreau’s Walden)

We have burst upon Thoreau’s solitude when no visitor arrives in the eventide from all those towns in the distant haze as they sit in their prime , beyond fields.

All the while, milking of cow takes place. Milch cows are a solitude to themselves before their milk flows to morning coffee .Their feet shuffle in slush, their eyes vacant. Only a tiny moon hangs above their tin roof .

Solitude is not away from body’s music, more in the windy creak of dead wood as strange words spring in a white space from the vast wild wastes of our nights. We sit alone, away from milking cows linking their remote existence to solitude.

I and dog

I ,my brothers and our common wife walked on a steepness with the dog and we were going down one by one with our serial shadows and several.

My brothers dropped dead and wife when their shadows went after sun.We two had our shadows behind us, I and dog that was my own shadow. In the end it is difficult to separate shadows from substance, I and dog.

(The scene of Mahaprasthan in  the Indian epic Mahabharata)


Just after the night we dream. All our metaphors come back,sleep stuff hid below pillows.The pillows are our metaphors for the small things we forget during sleep, on the wayside.They are fluffy swan feathers and we fight till they fill our air.

We run out of our metaphors when we are fixedly focused on a ceiling of empty breeze and arguments come to close on other side, beyond a glass.That is when eyes turn pearls in a final burst of metaphors.