We train our mornings to lead somewhere to life’s grand end-statement ,an aphorism ,a postponement of our death unilaterally. When one makes it one lives on as words.

Some one is sniggering at a postponement. It is raining outside , the end of all corners where Tarkovsky would live as in Polaroids . He tries to balance the corners in darkness.

We now try to postpone death to the end. Death is his end statement of who sniggers. Death be not proud is poet’s end statement, a postponement by he who cannot snigger.



We would wait for the word from a recent sleep. Then it would come as if we were waiting for it all these minutes .The word is wait , itself from a flick before sleep. After sleep there is a poem , a lover who displaces a mind, between a poem, a movie about waiting and a real life from dreaming.

Waiting is for a single Godot of the mind. Waiting is a thing that mutates to some other thing than what we are waiting for.

But at Marvel’s back he always heard the winged chariot hurrying near.

There is new mower of grasses who addresses glowworms.Glow worms are not the night time comets predicting a prince’s funeral. They do not even predict the fall of the grasses.

Big child

Son of God , thirsty crows , citrus leaves are all the big child remembers at sunset ,the sun to go behind trees and dog barks. There are lotuses in a pond smelling hills. The water we drink mixed with indup seed, so as to clarify the muddy waters , if any.

In the gold of a sunset the slate is filled, rather too much with connections, wires arrows straying beyond the wood frame. But we still see the faint lines of alphabet, thirsty crows on trees, gowned teachers amid smells of sandal paste , lotus ponds we drank waters from, mixed with seed, there at the top , below the wood frame.

Neither here nor there

At midnight we are right at the center a medias in res adaptation of old story –a long haul of a distant tireless forest peopled by honey bears hiding darkly in bushes, with the mountains sleeping at the furthest view of seeing nothing ,an opaqueness common to all dreams.

You forget you are in an opaque night and dreaming at a black core of night. Your creatures are shrouded in a dark like bears that may yet descend hills when you are sleeping on river bank with sticks by side to shoo them away if and as they descend on sugarcane crop.

But at the end of stillness is sea’s hum. A brine of vast possibility rises to moon by aggregation of darkness in thought, a point you are neither here nor there.

Train journey

We have no balance left to read poems into the train’s deep night we made our own towards a hill God. So we go on in a brown pen note with calligraphy as on a forehead. Train would oblige not to tremble Like Nepal under a falling debris.

Our forehead obliges with Brahma’s script but it does not know its balance .Calligraphy is fine, not (in)scrutable .God in boulder smiles knowingly .We will check with Him up there.


The picture tube plays its shadows at the back, like the winter night’s picture in picture, thin at the edges as if it is the sea at night touching a sky briefly at the horizon of rising.

It is at right angles to the horizon ,a conscious mind ‘s spanning night as its chimes go on in empty night. All things are at right angles to it. Even the night watchman’s whistle.

The watchman’s stick taps the earth vertically, exploring essential hollow. Watchman is vertical to the horizon, homo erectus previously on all fours. But moon is not vertical to watchmen being sprawled horizontally in trees. At night it hangs vertically in the sea.

Sparrows at midnight

At 1.30 AM there was not even the hum of the sea. The sea had quietened after a windy excitement of the day before. At three I could hear the watcman’s stick tap.

Since sleep was hard to come I recalled the sparrows of yesterday when they were seen on the almond tree. The sparrows here are more strident and always move in gangster groups.

They sit on the compound wall in groups and at times fly in a single formation to the only tree here that is the almond tree now heavy with green almonds.

By May the almonds will be maroon ripe and the leaves start falling all over the road. I don’t know where the sparrows will live in the tree entirely stripped of its leaves.

I write a sparrow poem and try to get back to sleep. To little avail.So I write this journal hoping at the end of it I will slip softly into sleep.

Here is the sparrow poem:


Sparrows not seen in beach,
Some times I find one or two

Pigeons on beach but crows
Monopolize the entire beach.

Crows lick whole beach clean ,
Eating up any piece of death

Washed ashore in the night.
Crows have no sparrows day.

They polish up sparrow dead
Even on World Sparrows day.

I have counted 25 sparrows
On an almond tree together

Along with spring’s almonds,
Excluding the one on beach.

I await sparrows in a mirror
Pecking at angry duplicates.