Garden is a fragrance remembered,
Soft grass crawling with slow snail,
Birds singing of changing the world
While I was at the computer trying
To change it before the cuckoo did.
Garden is a wood tree standing erect
As if it was alive and pretending life,
Hosting evening birds chatting away
With slum kids playing street cricket.
Fence is a running shadow of bush,
Hiding controverting garden lizard
That had agreed with your nothing
As it vigorously waved vertical head
To every polemic from your poetry.
The spider is your world’s wide web
That collected season’s rain pearls
Sparkling for proud sun moments
But gone when you returned from
An olfactory inspection of jasmines.
Garden is mama reading in a swing
From life’s pages that would be ice,
A fire’s ashes and a river’s waters,
A death’s fragrance remembered.
The lake was different by rusty sluice gates
And shore trees steadfast and light waving
And we sat on the parapet with hair flying
And a photograph made the day with lake
In a frame of time in space, in the married
Space of a son and dreams of his new wife.
It has now pushed far behind ,a tiny sachet
That glistened in afternoon sun like plastic
A ribbon of waters rippled by gentle breeze
Mildly perfumed by an incoming monsoon.
And the monsoon would seem so far away
Tantalisingly out of grasp for a city’s thirst
In the lake’s dwindling bowl upside down
With its earth bed crackling,fish long gone.
(The Hussainsagar lake in Hyderabad)
The pipal tree mimics sea
In dealing with a sea wind,
The way it passes its hair
So unlike in standing rice’s
Stalks bending in humility.
Pipal sings sheeted music
Reading from lowered eyes
When a whole world sleeps
Its bird’s eye views haywire.
Rain sleeps in dreams diffused
For want of electricity in wires.
Wires are emptied of electricity
Due to rain itself , rain’s worms,
Travelling on private rain tracks
In royal finery, pearls and all.
Only sun makes private pearls
But street lights do it at night.
Our budoir has fine rain things
Eclectic in sky,pretty fireworks
Naked birds shivering in trees.
We have it for our private use,
Trespassers highly prosecuted.
Write if you must, if your yard overgrows ,
And a vegetable crawls in pumpkins on ground
Its flowers turn yellow moons on the earth.
They are word and melody of a poet’s letter.
Their flowers are moons fallen to the earth .