The seven poems here are collected from the 17 typed manuscript pages brought to the home of the poet Perla Rezait in 1971, a year before her death. What does one make of it? There is death-like passivity in the entire activity of stringing together the seventeen poems as. To the poet Perla Rozait a year before her death.

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Short poems built around a keyword. We are still on the earth anxious for victory. Of avoiding the bumps in our tiny stomachs. And the consequent high tension wires in us. Snapping in their lightning flash, a big bang. We are looking for our paper to fly like them. Who went before and are a dead-weight still. On the earth we are hanging on to the hangar. Counting Siberian bird feet into our swamps. There is not much of a sun about us. Where we and our other come from.

I am now a serial reader . Like a serial killer . I started killing Russian literature bite by bite , as they say . You cannot bite beyond what you can chew. So each issue is bite-sized and your smallness of mouth is taken into account deciding the bite-size. The idiot has just reached General Epachin after an invigorating conversation with the servant in the ante-room. On the passing of Om Puri the fine movie a.

His teeth are a Himalayan pass. Letting in a central Asian wind. He smiles down at a cognition. Of senior to second in the run. I have learned from him by now. How to act my creeping years,. How to pretend not to observe. The wind from the nether pass. Tagged wind in the pass. See the moon hung on a branch of tree. It is sad moon-face,a pie-face in cloud. It used to jump each time a wave came. You are reading in years, with big holes.

Fragments of life, contextual experiences viewed as brief intersections of time and space. For seven days and seven nights. Our rain would go on our thatch. That held its home crows captive,. The black almost washed to gray. And the thatch looked a rice field. Our farmers are taken off turbans. And a light was not sunny yellow,. As eerie ultra violet rays touched. Bodies with no raging belly-fires. We have made up the rain stories. Like girls we have made it all up.

There is the broken moon on the housetop there. Cold and soggy, snuggling to the breezy coconut. The elephant god is not looking for it for laughter. After a heavy meal of sweets in his child-stomach. Our dear elephant-god lies in now broken himself. At the bottom of the lake, snuggling to the algae. Time for a many-armed mother, who shall bestow. Our victory for this season, wealth for our devout. The mother maternal, eyes wet with love for sons.