On reading Cathay

When she entered the room I called on Cathay

Quick to boot and pay the dues to the covenant

Between man and the satan, she said ‘yes’ to

silence the heaven’s high brow caprice, not

to kill the mocking bird! She said ‘yeah I am Cathay’

Heavens were not build in a day

On a summer’s eve in retrospect

But on a whim for forseen love for the first day

of introduction to an autumnal wind!

Philosophy · Poetry · poetry in motion

A Reqiuem for Stephen Hawking

He has passed away, his years locked into a threshold of work that brought sway

To the needles that needless say

black holes are powerbuilder that may

Knock nothingness into violent mayhem

And nothing has he become in the timeless scramble for infinite sleep that nay

Be broken and he might rest in the cosmic sea undisturbed and silently say

Oh George wake up and walk away as destiny’s child and explore what I bequeathed – the restless universe that you exploreth may

like the spring sunshine or winter eve or fall melodrama or summer’s dream


The Face

I see thy face in my mirror when you are not there

Is it a ghost’s silence I observer on the lines of thy face?

that I seek God to jusitfy what is an end of the dream

the dream dreamt by a living corpse that I see you

moving now further away into enternity the blank

face of the mirror is now my face as I see you vanish

Philosophy · Poetry

A simile with Christ on an evening

Tears had paled me to utter a cry and then

In one forceful event, I did begin to weep

The tears and tears had sailed upon my face

I was nailed by rain

As on the cross was Jesus, mighty yet blown away

By the wind but the days did pass and time did not still

Was this the God’s decree that let my son be delivered to me

Dead and he would arise on sunday

Did the God prophecy?

Or was it a false God then that he let the nails rip Christ’s body

Or Was the resurrection a device of devout man’s worry?


Philosophy · Poetry

An excerpt from my long poem

We must not punish the society

For we are society by ourselves-the underground

We must open the muse of the mythic the Mousai

We must rake in millions for the sake of her hand

Terrible sixth sense vertigo of heart is shaking

The inner grain of love seldom sewn on guitar

The Doll is in the making the waking loud noise

Philosophy · Poetry

on meeting

In the jocular vein, I proposed to thee

my daunting task of meeting a lion

in tiger’s den when suddenly you retreated

and I was dumbfounded as in which

way the cold-hearted wind blows till you

lifted your eyes in the eastwards

a narrow panorama runs through

did I realise the time is a bitter friend

and when lion stumbles to roar

as when lambs would be near

and we do have to part away

as always in stubborn silence

Philosophy · Poetry

An evening pall of gloom

To cast away the lingering doubts

when you strolled away in thoughts

I bring the psalms to the doors

with worshipping men turbaned in hues of dots

When you swing on the swings and reach out for the skies

I silently mark my silence as the silent spectator’s guardian dove,

come sit under my canopy which shades from the day as my abode

And then my pestilence grows with the full moon

lurking in the eastern skies as an omen

of windward love-change that deepens

I come to see the moon as your aide by your side

with your arc and bow arrow bent

But your music is annoyance to the evening’s clime

as darling, it is dressed in the darkness of eastern rhymes

I press to walk harder than to amble the pavement

in hiding behind the hour’s veil and loitering,

as the hour is hung from the mid-air

And the dusk is behind our heels,

lapping to elope into night

I see maidens wearing sunglasses under the steady moonlight

They are again annoyance to the evening’s clime

but they fear more than they are loved, that anything said

would be taken as an argument against them as obscure as they are

and fame be ushered in is an annoyance to the moon

who yearns and yearns for thousand pretty girls.

In the end, it is an open evening sky

stretched as widespread as the balmy air

when one must try liberating the human soul from ghettos of love

But an evening pall of gloom has deepend by Jove.