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.

Please wait a few minutes and refresh this page. Black dog and pink rose. Poetry of the broad daylight. The little girl on the temple steps. The poet and the albatross.

Please wait a few minutes and refresh this page. The lake that was sea. Please wait a few minutes and refresh this page.

A poem a day written in 2011 and 2012. A poem a day by A. The chrysanthemums are stars of a sun. Taking sun light from wind and worms. A bouquet to no one except an earth pot. Its mother of womb, softly under water. In earthly fragrance of mother and wind. A sky overlooks from a blue parapet wall. Topped with a Krishna-black granite like. Lake mirroring shore trees,in the evening . Like sky-stars they seem to last for ever. A poem a day by A.

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.

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.

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.