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.

By the sweat of his brow. Making light of serious stuff. A poem a day by A. Light grew less in his eyes and other poems. Dad would rather not part with. His daughter into her marriage,. Spinster daughter,not a virgin. Her marriage is not important . Daugher is ,for doddering dad. Concerned about his hard shit. Everything goes down to shit.

Poetry posted as and when it happens. Sounds come from drums and pipes. From silences ,vacated by crickets. Men turning in a sleep, from dreams. The wedding sounds are of joint sleep. Of many liquid nights and tear sounds. From black-lined eyes, red hurt noses. Sounds of two bodies sleeping, rising. Posted in poetry by A. We hear about the boy who stared in the hospital.

Poetry about the Indian situations ,Indian memes. In the midst of our presidential confusion. We may mention his passing of yesterday. Lecturing a bunch of north and east kids. To the management kids on wings of fire. A fire shall now bury president of all time. An old paper boy had aimed upper story. With news missile to reach morning cup. Later he made missiles for the high skies.

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.

Photo art using artistic photo filters and effects. Camel man in the Jaisalmer desert. Gazing at the Splendor of Jodhpur fort. The camel man of the desert near Jaisalmer. At the royal cenotaphs in Bada Bagh in Jaisalmer. Bada Bagh in Jaisalmer with royal cenotaphs. Camel man in the Jaisalmer desert.

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.

I keep this from my children . I have to sell them this world. I keep this from my children. I am my good bones and they are my bones. I keep it from my children. And will be dust anytime by a conservative estimate . I keep all my estimates from my children. That is how I successfully sell the world to them. How nice, who knows what lies ahead! .

The earth shook three times and it took a whole minute to realise I was not in Gangtok of the Himalayas but right on the pillow. Behind eyes, that is. The eye shook in disbelief. It was a vast plain and we were not in a building. Then why were we exhorting everyone to lie down? We should have run outside. The cunning fox comes slyly and my poem is made for the new day. We were hardly free to fill it the way we would. But the world is fi.