these poems had been published in Tuck Magazine
Crushers’ Trilling Growls
The crushers’ trilling growls;
Crackling gripes in start of squat trail to life
Squeaky bellyaches, midway
trilling growls, lastly
Herald of the sun
Blighting the thick elm leaves to flaps
Making our soft scalps defenseless
Conjurer of dusts painting the skies
Smearing on our tawny arms
Rashes we scratch till blood shoots like
Shattered rocks of spring.
Evo girls abhor your endless barks
Thieves of sweet dreams
Draftsmen of tears and curses
Polluter of sweet eddies
Murderers of petals
Dryers of pods
Crushers of ivory flowers we pluck to remember
Swift to born us in this stone mine of hunger
Swift to die from the disease of your dusts’
The crushers’ trilling growls the girls hate you.
You’ve awoken us this morning again
Stealing our sweet sleeps of sweet dreams
Here we squat for your growls and dusts again.
What is Poetry
I was sleeping when Birija the sibling of Burata entered my room yesterday.
He tugged at my knotty dreadlock.
He did not touch the acoustic gulter
Of a strained musketeer perhaps he wasn’t Aware it leaned on the wall above his head Brimmed by hassles and puzzles of seen and unseen world.
I woke up smiling and ransacking the bed Sheets for my pen and notebook.
I did not notice him, all my eyes saw was The carmine vista of carmine elks and Ermines with colorful furs I had been Watching in an interrupted dream.
I saw him when he said he’s with my pen and notebook. I ordered him to handle them to me. He flashed a megawatt smile not needed by a poet having hunches twirling in his mind and asked ‘what did you need them for’
A poet need not be in a dale of dialogues when scenes to be recaptured arrived, I snubbed him and ordered once more for my pen and notebook.
After a half of a full minute when the muse seemed to digress to the terra It came from he asked again ‘what did you need them for’
I hissed before saying for poetry, for a poem that hunts me now, for the recollection of sweet dreams….
He asked again ‘what is poetry’
In time like this, to a poet this boy is an Intruder. This boy is a bulwark and a hill on The path, unlike a poet I held my spirit close To my body. He cares to learn let me oblige And teach him. At least a poet teaches.
My boy, poetry is fear
Poetry is pain
Poetry is Dream
Poetry is Vision
Poetry is Allusion
Poetry is Puzzle
Poetry is Burden
Poetry is Success
Poetry is Failure
Poetry is Sadness
Poetry is Happiness
Poetry is Horror
Poetry is Joy
Poetry is Tranquility
A poet writes to savage the mind from bursting. Boy handle them to me if you will not watch this brain to splay like beads on you.
The boy was silent. He said nothing. A minute later he let out a long breath and handled them to me.