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.

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

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.

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.

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.

Poems with Indian motifs, Indian cultural expressions. Light grew less in his eyes and other poems. Light grew less in his eyes and other poems. We try to picture great grandmother. We did not know who our g. But would dream her in holy thread. On shirtless chest, a lump in throat.

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.