The last afternoon, with my body

It was 1’o clock in the afternoon. I don’t remember how the morning went by. We were on a vacation at a far off place, staying on a cliff that hangs high over a tumultuous water body. I have come with an adventurous lot to this place, but am unbothered by their names or existence. …

The rabid freedom to explore

​ Our footing may keep us down – And the place would seem a swamp, The plight may be strong, and no sincere mirth anywhere around, The passion is no longer down, and void we may be of any charm, The death it may seem of our innate & inert, but there lies a stalwart …

On friendship…

For the platonic love that we share, I am all & all with you, simply bare. Seldom, we miss the tact of argument & meander in palaver, Besides that we do saunter in the caucuses of the brain. The thrill of perception & the conundrum of each other's cake, There lies the spot-on spring for …

That beautiful facet of Love

​ My crotch doesn't lie, it is often gladdened to lie in yours. The body wants to toil against the veneer of yours. The nearer you are, at times goes the only preserve, The soul wants to wander & meander & mooch. Alike to my visage that wants to spoon & caress, And cuddle with …

On the deep melancholy that comes & goes!

​ The torment is immense & the throes fantastic, The growth is abrupt & the misery very dark, Like a spasm it contains & in an instant it whisks, It entices with its thought & cumbers abominably, It slaps melancholies & leaves unceremoniously. I try hard to gather & dig harder to know content, But …

The Rape of Masquerades

​The aridity of the evening has come, My ponderous and moody weariness is back, It calls for retirement, It calls to die back in sleep.   All my acquaintances and correspondences wait to come in flash, Deciduous may be the people, and ephemeral the events, Yet they are all there, in the baby psyche.   …

A Poem on the primeval thoughts of a writer

​ There is joy that is induced, And there is ecstasy that comes by act, Intoxicators are a lot, Yet - nothing gives a high that a great conversation can shy. For above all - I am but an eye, I have my own lenses and have my own strides, My idea is to speak …

Ode to Papa

A poem dedicated to Papa, for his untiring efforts to give us a better life. Written in spontaneity & with love!