Sunday, August 20, 2006

eight great american poets

I’ve been reading
eight great American
poets of the past
half century.

Theodore Roethke
an alcoholic
a schizophrenic
was found drowned
in a swimming pool
face down
at age fifty five.

Elizabeth Bishop
whose mother spent
most of her life
in a lunatic asylum,
hid her alcoholism,
bouts of depression
and her lesbianism
all her life.

Robert Lowell,
a manic depressive
took electric shock
treatments to his
head all life.
in delusions of grandeur
he thought he was
the greatest villain
and attacked others
with physical violence.
He was married 3 times.

John Berryman’s
father killed himself
putting gun to his head
when John was very young.
he heard his father’s shot
and never forgave him.
a believer in monogamy,
was married 3 times and
lived an adulterous life.
a chronic alcoholic.
on a wintry day
when fifty-six
he killed himself jumping
from a bridge on the Mississippi river
onto frozen boulders below.

Anne Sexton, a walking
encyclopedia of mental disorders
was addicted to alcohol,
tobacco, barbiturates
and tranquilizers.
she called herself a witch
and abused her children.
when hardly forty six,
she put on her mother’s fur
coat and died in her car
in the garage, the car idling.

Sylvia Plath’s husband,
Ted Hughes started fucking
his friend’s wife and she
committed suicide gassing
herself from her kitchen stove
when hardly thirty one

Allen Ginsberg was profane
in his use of tongue.
he celebrated homosexuality
and used psychedelic drugs.

James Merrill avoided
women being a homosexual.
and celebrated homosexuality
like Allen Ginsberg.

these great American
poets for the past half century,
so full of insights of life -
their verses so admired –
were what a great
bunch of people in real life!
perhaps those who can
see order in disorder,
can’t see disorder
in their own lives.

she loves me but a little too much

she loves me
but a little too much.
I tell her I like
quesadillas for snacks.
she spreads a ton of cheddar
cheese, a ton of chopped
onions and jalapenos
peppers on a flour tortilla,
warms it up in the microwave
till the cheese melts,
rolls it up and says to me:
“darling, I love you,
you’ll love the quesadilla
for you I made.”

salty like a dry salt lake
hot as my tongue on fire
I suck air to appease my tongue.
I run to the kitchen for
ice cubes to put on my tongue
I run to the closet for a towel
to wipe the torrents running
off my eyes and nose.
it’s good but a little too rich,
the best quesadilla she
ever made, I tell my honey.

Tuesday, August 01, 2006

when you send me a bouquet of flowers

darling, when you send me
a bouquet of flowers,
I think of you and
play with them for hours.

I love the anthuriums the most,
though I love tulips and roses too.
I slide my fingers on the stems
of anthuriums, moving up gently

to reach its pink petals.
then gently I move the tip
of my pointing finger to its center
and touch the long yellow projection

loaded with pollens fitting into its center.
O darling, I miss you so much then.
I feel like embracing you tight and
digging my fingers deep into your skin.

I feel tightening sensations in my groins,
goose bumps crawl all over me and sharp
electric current sparks rush down my spine.
O how I miss you my darling.

Monday, July 31, 2006

Sex Without Love

“How do they do it, the ones who make love
without love?” Getting into a priest’s position
or some monk or monkey’s position, they glide
like gliders, they skate in circles like skaters,
forward, backward, up, down, down, up
and move like machines in rhythmic motions
as if never coming to stop, till their faces are red,
like red wine their hearts are racing like
Indy 500 racing, their lungs are bursting,
huffing, puffing as if balloons are bursting. Like
at the instant of death dying, dying by coming,
coming, coming back to life, reborn, like born
again Christians coming to see their god. Why should
the love making be only in making love
to lovers? Why can one not make love
only for one’s own pleasure?

Don’t tell me lies

Don’t tell me lies:
You love me.
You can’t live
Now without me.

You pick up street women.
You pick up horny whores.
You’ve fucked your office girl.
You’ve fucked your secretary.

I have known all this.
And have never told you I loved you.
I’ve been with you for your money.
Now tell me how does it feel?

The Suicide's Song of Rainer Maria Rilke - A New English Rendering

Original in German:

Das Lied des Selbstmörders

Also noch einen Augenblick.
Daß sie mir immer wieder den Strick
Neulich war ich so gut bereit,
und es war schon ein wenig Ewigkeit
in meinen Eingeweiden.

Halten sie mir den Löffel her,
diesen löffel Leben.
Nein, ich will und ich will nicht mehr,
laßt mich mich übergeben.

Ich weiß, das Leben ist gar und gut,
und die Welt ist ein voller Topf,
aber mir geht es nicht ins Blut,
mir steigt es nur zu Kopf.

Andere nährt es, mich macht es krank;
begreift, daß man's verschmäht.
Mindestens ein Jahrtausend lang
brauch ich jetzt Diät.

~Rainer Maria Rilke

The Suicide's Song

All right, just a moment.
That they always take the rope away from me
and cut it.
Lately I've been so prepared,
and there was already a little bit of eternity
in my guts.

Hold me the spoon here,
this spoon-fed life.
No, I want to and I don't want to anymore,
let me give in, throw up.

I know that life is whole and good,
and that the world is like a full dish,
but for me it doesn't get into my blood,
it just goes straight up to my head.

For others it's nourishment, me it just makes sick;
Understand, that one can despise it.
For at least a thousand years
I'll have to fast.

Translated by Cliff Crego's%20Song

In Hindi/Urdu:

Ek Hatya ka Gaana

Achha, ab ek pal ruko
Wo hamesha phansi ka rassa
Meray say door lay kar
kat detay hain.
Thora sa pehlay say main tayaar hooaa baitha hoon,
Aur meray andar ek thora sa
Hamesha zinda rehnay ka josh aayaa hai.

Yeh chamcha meray pass rakho
Is chamchay nay mujhay zinda rakha hai.
Nahin, mujhay is ki zaroorat hai aur zarorat nahin bhi hai
Mujhay jaanay do, isay phenk do.

Mujhay pata hai kay zindgi sab kuch hai aur achhi hai
Aur duneeya khanay ki bhari ek thhali hai,
Lakin yah meray khoonn main nahin basti,
Yeh mujhay ek dum pagal kiyay rehtee hai.

Doosron kay leeyay yeh khurak hai, meray leeyay bimari hai:
Samaj lo, koee es ko nafrat bhi kar sakta hai.
Kum say kum ek hazaar saal tak
Ab main koee khana na khaoon ga.

Translated from Cliff Crego's English translation.


The Suicide Song - A New Englsih Version

OK, wait for a moment.
They cut and keep
The rope of hanging
Always away fro me.
I’ve been ready for long
I have no longings left for living.

Keep this spoon near me
It has kept me alive.
No, I don’t want it
And yet I want it.
Let me go now
Throw it away now.

I know life is everything
And it is good
And the world
Is a plate full of food.
But it doesn’t live in my blood.
It makes me mad all times.

It’s food for others
It’s sickness for me.
Consider this: one can hate
It too for a thousand years.
I’ll now partake no food.

Translated back into English from the Urdu/Hindi version.

Friday, July 28, 2006

A poem of Prathibha Nandakumar, and my poem

The Tigress

He is the animal trainer
makes even the fiercest of fierce animals
crawl, jump, stand on hind legs
just by the crack of his whip.

He puts his head between
the dangerous teeth of the tiger
pats his appreciation
waits in anticipation
of applause.

This tigress
that roamed the deep jungle,
terror of the forest,
now sits cross-legged in front of him.
Is she a tigress or what?

Someone once asked her about it.
She just smiled and brought out
her long sharp nails
hidden well under her paws
and scratched her head.

~Prathibha Nandakumar


she thought for a moment
and if further provoked,
could have clawed
his jugulars and devoured his
head deep down her gullet.

but it was love
she gave birth to the trainer.
it was love
she performed for the trainer.
she’s a tigress
but she lives for love.

~Ravi Kopra

Tuesday, June 13, 2006

No sour grapes here

To be a troll
To be a beggar with no money
And say you don’t like money
But like to beg to feed your tummy
Comes only from a dummy.

He is a bum, all scum
You listen not to him
When he says
He doesn’t like money.

So is with peace.
You have no power
To everyone you cower
And say you love peace.
No one will listen to you
People will mock at you.

But if you have power
And give up power for peace,
Everyone will love you
Everyone will believe you
And tell you:
You are a man of peace.

No sour grapes here!

Monday, June 12, 2006

Fernando Pessoa ( ) That tragedy is yours alone

Free Verse Rendering from Fernando Pessoa's Prose in Livro do Desassossego, in Portuguese

In a chair I sit
And forget the life
That so oppresses me.
The only pain I feel
Is the pain
Of having felt it sometime.
To be free is
To withdraw from the world.
You seek no one,
No money, no glory
No love, no society, no curiosity.
They flourish not
In silence and solitude.

Unable to live alone
Is like being a slave.
Even if superior in soul,
You still are a serf--
A noble slave.

Woe betide you,
Weight of life makes you a slave.
Woe betide you,
Born free, yet you seek
Others’ company for need.
That tragedy is yours alone,
You alone must bear it.

~ Fernando Pessoa
Rendering by Ravi Kopra

Saturday, May 27, 2006

Pablo Neruda ( ) Love


Woman, I have become your son drinking
your breasts’ milk as if from a spring,
by watching you, feeling you by my side and having you
in the smile of gold and the voice of crystal.

Feeling you in my veins like God in the rivers
and adoring you in the sad bones of dust and lime,
as you passed beside me without pain,
and left in the strophe – clean of everything bad -.

…How would I know to love you, woman, how would I know
to love you, love you as nobody knew never before.
Dying and still
loving you more.
And still
loving you more
and more.

Translated by Ravi Kopra


Original in Spanish:


MUJER, YO HUBIERA sido tu hijo, por beberte
la leche de los senos como de un manantial,
por mirarte y sentirte a mi lado y tenerte
en la risa de oro y la voz de cristal.

Por sentirte en mis venas como Dios en los ríos
y adorarte en los tristes huesos de polvo y cal,
porque tu ser pasara sin, pena al lado mío,
y saliera en la estrofa —limpio de todo mal—.

... Cómo sabría amarte, mujer como sabría
amarte, amarte como nadie supo jamás.
Morir y todavía
amarte más.
Y todavía
amarre más
y más.

Friday, May 05, 2006

Darling, I still remember

Darling, I still remember
That spring morning,
Camping in woods we went
To the brook to fetch water,
And sat there on a boulder,
Watching the sun to rise
Beyond the birch trees;
As the sunbeams came
From crimson skies
Through the tall trees,
Touching our face,
Shining in our eyes,
You leaned against me
And kissed me, and I
Embraced you tight
In my arms and said:
Sweetheart, I love you.

Chinlee, my sweet darling

Chinlee, my sweet darling,
Another spring has come.
Cherry blossoms are everywhere.
Swallows clamour in the air.
Ducks dive in ponds with their ducklings
And the doves coo-coo with their mates.
Here I am walking by the Yangtze river
Under the full moon. I’m now to the second
Bottle of red cherry wine I bought from Yu Ding,
The Zen master, a mile up the river.
I’m missing you my darling and Kwa Ming
My little son born a year ago in spring.
I’m lonely. There’s no company.
I ask the moon to be my friend.
But she shies away.

Note: On reading Chinese poetry translated
by Kenneth Rexborth and others.

Thursday, May 04, 2006

Today I saw him in the fog

The spiritual guru with glib tongue
Passed away yesterday.
Thousands came to the burial grounds
To see his casket lowered
Into the pit in the ground.
Many said he went to heaven.

Today I saw him in the fog
Moving around so confused.
I asked why he was there,
We thought he went to heaven.

“Gates were shut,” he said.
He had sent so many there,
There was no place for him.

Note: On reading Yi Sha’s Chinese poem
Up, Up And Away in English translation by
Simon Patton.

Rafael Patino ( ) A Colombian Poet. Village of Delerium

Who says oh so sovereign smooth tongue,
I will not tell you a verb without a head,
But a loud and harsh howl,
Hatched in the silence’s slab.
So when your room beheads
The wind in the window,
You go to the village of delirium.
The syllable flies filled with the mint of your voice
And from my penis you drink white lava
With the incarnate gluttony of your Adam’s apple.


Original in Spanish:

Aldea del Delirio

Quién dice lengua oh vellón soberano,
No te diré un verbo acéfalo
Pero un ronco ulular
Se incuba en la losa del silencio
Así cuando tu cuarto degüella al viento
En tu ventana
Tú vas hasta la aldea del delirio,
Vuela la sílaba rellena con la menta de tu voz
Y bebes la blanca lava de mi verga
Con la encarnada glotonería de tu nuez

~ Rafael Patino

Sometime I get swayed

Sometime I get swayed
By what people write or say,
Be it a poem or a story.

I want to know them.
I want to be like them.
I fancy soaring to skies.

Ground underneath my feet
I feel slipping away.
I get scared.

And then I hear my mom:
Where there’s a will
There’s a way.

Next moment I hear my dad:
Junior, be careful.
Mountains look so beautiful
When they are far away.

Wednesday, May 03, 2006

It was biological

When someone becomes
Philosophical and asks the age
Old question: why is he here?

I tell him:
Ask your mama,
Ask your papa.

It was biological.

And when he wonders:
What is the purpose of his life?
I tell him:

Ask yourself.
Don’t be a fool.
Live your life.

Dear Love... A Letter to His Wife

Dear Love,
You with broken bones
Are lying in bed
In the bone healing ward.

I here with tired soul
Am lying in bed
In the psycho ward.

I am not crazy, my dear.
I only say things
They do not understand

And drug me day and night,
Saying I’m crazy in mind.
This morning I flushed the pills

Down the toilet drain and
I'm now with lucid mind.
If I die before you die

I want to let you know,
You had kept me from
Falling apart all my life.

Please write this on my
Tombstone, if you will:
Here lies the most misunderstood

Man in the world. He loved
Everyone in his heart. But
Everyone turned against him.

O dad! please don’t tell mom

O dad! please don’t tell mom,
Don’t tell her doctor
She forgets things.

Don’t you forget
Where you park your
Car in the lot of mall?

Don’t you forget
What you had for breakfast?
And you call Jessie, Samuel
And Samuel you call Jessie.

Mom is fine
And so are you.
Love her, we all love you.

She has no Alzheimer’s.
She loves you so much,
She forgets things.

Darling, I would love to be with you

Darling, I would love to be with you
To share moments of pleasure,
To reflect on the nature of world,
To lie down on sun drenched beaches,
To hike on mountain trails,
To stop by a gurgling brook
To hold you in my arms,
To caress you and give you a kiss.
To see the foreign lands with you
And too, to sit in my garden with you
To watch the finches, robins,
Blue jays and cardinals,
Feasting on peaches
And cherries I planted.

I would like to read poetry to you,
sitting in the cool spring evening
in the rose garden I planted for you.
I would make a bouquet of long stem
Pink, yellow and red roses for you,
Pour red wine in your goblet
And munch crackers and crunch
On celery sticks dipped into
Blue cheese layerd with
Fresh cilantro leaves and mace,
while listening to Mozart
and Vivaldi in the background.

I would love to see you smile,
I would love to see you forget
All worries and be in the moment,
Sharing peace and pleasure
In my humble company.

Tuesday, May 02, 2006

Hey hoo!.... hoo hoo!

On Lohri day
In Punjab, Panipat,
Sonya and Lagpat,
Sat with their friends
Surrounding the flaming fires.

They ate popcorn with gur.
They relished sesame-candy.
They exchanged hugs and handshakes
With friends, and sang songs of love.
They went on dancing gidha and bhangra
Till early hours of dawn:
“Hey, hey, you handsome one
Hey, hey, you chieftain's son.
Hey hey, you beautiful one,
You are fair as the shining sun.
Hey hoo!.... hoo hoo!
Hoo hoo!.... hey hoo!”

Note: Gur is raw, brown solid sugar.
Gidha and bhangra are Punjabi dances.

I can see and feel love

Don’t screw my head, my darling
With philosophies of love.
I want to share my life with you.
I want to share all I have with you.
I care for you, my darling
And that for me is love.

Don’t screw my head, my dear
With philosophies of love.
Don’t tell me beyond time
And space lies true love.
I love you, my darling,
True romance for me is love.

Don’t screw your head, sweetheart
With philosophies of love.
Let loonies screw their heads
With philosophies of love.
I love caring romantic love,
I don’t care for spiritual love.

Don’t screw my head, my lover.
I love you, and if you love me
Tell me simply so.
I am an ordinary woman,
I can see and feel love.
I don’t care for philosophies of love.

Monday, May 01, 2006

Why should he love you forever?

If he loved you once,
Why should he love you forever?
Does anything last forever?

Do palaces not go into ruins?
Do armadas not sink in oceans?
Do riches not turn to rags?

If someone loves you no more,
Will heavens burst and fall?
You may not be worth him

He may not be worth you.
What you thought was gold,
Was perhaps fool’s gold.

Get on with your life.
If you love yourself,
Someone will surely love you.

Sunday, April 30, 2006

The birds flew and romped

It rained all night last night.
It rained till noon today.
The clouds cleared.
The sun shined.
The birds flew and romped
on apple, cherry and pear trees,
singing their songs:
choo, choo, choo
twit twit, twee too, twee too
kwaeyam, kwaeyam
chich, chich, chich….chich, chich
coo, coo….. coo, coo
kret, kret…..kret kret
kruch, kruch koo, kruch, kruch
caw, caw….caw, caw

There were finches, sparrows
robins, blue jays, cardinals
doves, crows and there were
some black little birds
with yellow beaks and feet.
I sat in my garden watching them.
Many came to the bird feeder to feast.
I copied their sounds as they sang
and felt I was learning how to sing
songs of joy in nature’s tongues.

To live to the fullest your life

Darling, if I were to die tomorrow,
Cry for me for a day or two.
Don’t mourn me for too long
And start living your life.

Darling, I were to go insane tomorrow,
Put me in a loony ward.
Come and visit me if you will
But go on with your life.

Promise me, you won’t mess
Your brain with karma and dharma;
And not live in misery rest of life,
But would find a new lover

To live to the fullest your life.

Note: This poem was composed on reading
a comment by Vennela on my poem Sweet Love, I Want Your Love.

Thursday, April 27, 2006

For Love

For love I’d read Omar Khayyam
a million times to you.
But love for you is dead
unless you open your head,
beyond butter and bread,
to that soft flowing feeling
of a running brook inside you.

On reading a poem of Robert Creeley,
titled, The Warning

In His Villa

In his villa, I saw the guru
hitting the keys at his PC,
writing some crap on holy trinity
and to know your god
through seven paths -
Or something like that.
I asked him:
“Why do you write all this crap?”
“Because it brings me lot of money.”
He replied sheepishly.

On reading a poem of Stephen Crane,
titled, In the Desert

A God in Wrath

A god in wrath
Let a man’s wife die, let his son die
And then in war the man lost his sight.
He asked god: “Why me, Lord?”
“I wipe out those who fear me most.”
Replied God.

On reading a poem of Stephen Crane,
titled, A God in Wrath

A Guru Said to God

A guru said to God:
“God, I am spreading seven
spiritual paths. Bless me.”
Said God to him:
“Shut up. Your pocket
is bulging with money.
What more blessings you want?”

On reading a poem of Stephen Crane
titled, A Man Said to the Universe

Tuesday, April 25, 2006

Let me show you how to make love

Let me lie down on my back.
Come, straddle me on top.
Let me show you how to make love,
Let me show you how to orgasm.

Darling, I've a big meeting coming.
I have to deliver the annual address.
Let’s do what Teitelbaum says.
Let’s get some orgasms.

It’ll release oxytocin.
It will make us feel relaxed.
It will make my mind clear
To deliver my address in calm.

It will decrease my stage fright.
Audience will see me anxiety free.
I don’t want to picture them naked,
Darling, lie down naked beside me.

Note:Inspired from the following news item:

"Orgasm triggers oxytocin release, causing you to feel more relaxed yet energized with a clear mind," says Dr. Jacob Teitelbaum, MD. So instead of saving your energy before the big meeting, a romp in the sheets may be just the thing to help you focus? Yes, says Dr. Teitelbaum. "Sex has been shown to decrease stage fright and anxiety in front of audiences," he adds. "So ignore that old advice to picture the crowd naked - be naked with your partner instead" (before the presentation, of course).”


Thursday, April 20, 2006

She tells me she loves me

She tells me she loves me
And I don’t care.
Never share my love,
Never lay my heart bare.

I love her for her looks and body.
I love her she says she cares.
But she is so jealous, so crazy,
She can’t let me breathe air.

I don’t love her for her mind.
Her thoughts are so confined.
She spies on anything I do –
For nothing so much ado.

I am beginning to realize,
Body and looks are not
What love is made of. A beautiful
Mind is what now I care for.

Wednesday, April 19, 2006

Red Roses

He sent me a dozen long stem red roses, with a note saying: Darling, I love you. As I placed them in the yellow vase he brought me from Shangai, I caressed them, moving my fingers along long stems. I let my cheeks rest on them, closed my eyes and said: Yes my darling, I love you too.

He took me to dinner that evening and ordered champagne with biryani. Suddenly, while sipping champagne, he proposed to marry me. I was shocked. I hadn’t known him for long. I wanted more time.

The ring in his pocket pained. He went silent after that. He brought me home, bade me good night, and as he walked away, I panicked. Running after him I wanted to say I loved him. He said: “It’s getting cold, you know, step fast inside.”

I never saw him again. For years I waited for him. Those red roses now celebrate my memories of his love in my journals. I have taken them few times with me across the globe on my trips. I caress their dry petals and kiss them when I think of him. I had bought a baby blue silk sari embroidered with red roses at the borders to wear for him if one day I saw him again.

I was young and naïve then, just out of college. I did not know how to accept his love. I am writing this now for him. If he happens to read this, he will know I truly loved him.

Whenever somebody mentions biryani or champagne, I go silent. I feel cold waves running through me and I hear him: “It’s getting cold, you know, step fast inside.”

Tuesday, April 18, 2006

He sent me a dozen long stem red roses

He sent me a dozen
long stem red roses,
with a note saying:
Darling, I love you.

As I placed them in the yellow
vase he brought me from Shangai,
I caressed them moving my fingers
On stems. I let my cheeks

rest on roses, closed my eyes
and said: yes, darling, I love you too.
He took me to dinner that evening
and ordered champagne with biryani.

Suddenly while sipping champagne,
He proposed to my surprise.
I hadn’t known him for long,
I wanted more time.

The ring in his pocket pained.
He went silent most of the time.
He brought me home, bade
good night, and as he walked away

I panicked. Running after him
I wanted to say I loved him.
He said: “it’s getting cold,
you know, step fast inside.”

Note: After reading a poem of Anna Akhmatova.

Monday, April 17, 2006

Sweet love, I want your love

When I am away from you,
All depressed and messed up
in my day to day work,
I think of you.

I think of moments of passions,
I think of fun we had.
Sweet love, I begin missing you.
Sweet love, I want your love.

Sometime I think,
I am living not for myself.
I am living because I love you.
Sweetheart, you are my love.

Friday, April 14, 2006

What do I do with my woman?

I write poems of love.
She complains:
They are not for her.

I go to the mall with her.
When some woman there
smiles at me,
she throws a fit: why she.

When I thank a woman
for a job well done,
she goes bonkers cussing her:
why she is the one.

What do I do with my woman?

As the coffee percolated

It was about five this morning,
I got up all aroused to pass water.
I tuned the coffee for two on
and slipped back into the bed.

“Are you ok, honey?”
she mumbled half asleep,
moved her hand on my groins
and lay still as if asleep.

Soon life throbbed in her hand.
She suddenly pulled me
on top of her still mumbling:
“my darling, I love you.”

As the coffee percolated,
we percolated. The sounds
of steaming coffee merged
with our primaeval sounds:

Yes, yes, now…ooee, ooee…

Sliding back to her side, she said:
“Good morning, so wonderful.”
“Yes my darling, you’re wonderful,”
hugging her tight I gasped.

Thursday, April 13, 2006

Ripe, dark grapes

As I sat on the sofa,
she suddenly left saying:
honey, I’ll be back soon.
The red roses I sent
were in on the table
in a yellow-blue vase.
Copies of the Ladies Home Journal,
Fear of Flying and Kamasutra lay
beside the flower vase.
On the wall hung a painting
of a Mogul king offering
a red rose to his bare breasted
concubine sitting in front of him,
while another poured wine
into his half-full goblet placed
by the hubble-bubble on his side.

She returned dressed just as
the king’s concubine,
but with drops of honey
on her breasts’ tips.
Sitting beside me placing
her hands on my shoulders,
she smiled and said:
my charming prince
from the land of Kamasutra,
we’ll later have supper and wine.
have mouth-full of desert first
of ripe, dark grapes of mine.

I obliged.

Wednesday, April 12, 2006

Her dove like breasts swayed

I did not ring the door bell.
She must have been standing
There behind the closed door.

In a pink silk brocaded gown,
No bra, cleavage was visible.
Her dove like breasts swayed,
As she stepped forward.

Her hair was brushed straight,
Falling to her shoulders.
Her lips were like pink rose petals,
Her cheeks like roses so fresh.

We embraced, our lips locked.
She moved her leg between my legs.
“ O darling, I’ve been waiting all evening,
I’m so gland you came,” she said.

They are jealous, my darling

Don’t listen to no one my darling
If they say it’s obsession
And I don’t love you

They don’t know love
They don’t know nothing
They are jealous, my darling
They want to have you

Sweet love, I miss you
Turning in bed at night
I’m sleepless thinking of you

What’s wrong if it’s obsession
If you love me
And I love you

Tuesday, April 11, 2006

God, you must be pudden-head

God, you must be pudden-head
and not what they say you are.
To sacrifice your only son
(in case he was really your son)
to show you loved the world!

You could not love your only son.
How could you love the world?
John, you made up of this stupid story
for stupid people to sing Jesus' glory.
Wake up, people!

Note: Inspired by John 3:16 in the Bible.

Monday, April 10, 2006

An orange is on the table

My darling, my sweet peach,
An orange is on the table
I’ll squeeze it gently to make the juice
No need to order when we can have it
All fresh in the freshness of night

Your robe is on the rug
White candle is burning lightly
We are in the bed under the comforter
Reveling in love listening to Vivaldi
Sweet love, I feel so heavenly

Note: The second line is after Jacques Prevert in his poem Alicante.

I am thirsting for smooth love

My flower, my lovely professor,
Let’s now see how love feels.
Stop messing your mind
Talking only of love.

Bring here the glasses of wine,
Sit here in my lap, my peach.
I am thirsting for sweet wine,
I am thirsting for smooth love.

Read Khayyam's love verses to me.
Let me nibble at peaches while
I slowly savour sips of wine.
It’s heavenly here under the tree.

Thursday, April 06, 2006

You put me on fire, my woman

O woman of my desires
You put me on the fires of passion
To have you in my arms
And love you, love you always.

Your face like two pomegranates halves
Your derriere like round water-melons
Your breasts like two loving doves
You put me on fire, my woman.

My groins burn in wanting you
My arms desire in embracing you
My lips want to rest on your lips
Kissing you, Kissing you always.

O meu amor de meus sonhos
O mi amor de mis sueños
O my love of my dreams
O mon amour de mes rêves
O il mio amore dei miei sogni
I love you, I love you.

My thirst for you is never ending
The more I get you, the more I want you
I want to have you all in me
So that we become eternally one.

I want you my darling
Yo le quiero mi querido
Eu quero meu encantador
Je vous veux mon cheri
La voglio il mio darling
Yes my darling, I want you
Desire you, desire you always.

Wednesday, April 05, 2006

Prose Poems

Following is a collection of prose poems that I tried to write from the original poetry of well known poets.

The Indian Serenade

I arise early from sweet sleep after dreaming of you all night. The winds are soft and the stars are still shining bright in the sky. I arise after dreaming of you with springs under my feet. O sweet darling! I do not know how, but I arrive below your bedroom window.

The wandering airs are slowing down. The stream is silent and the scent of pine trees is everywhere like thoughts in a dream. The nightingale has stopped complaining in her heart. O my beloved! Let my heart be upon yours for me to stop complaining.

O darling! Lift me up from the grass below your bedroom window. I die! I faint! I fail! Let your kisses of love rain on my lips and my pale eyelids. My cheeks are getting cold and white. My heart is beating loud and fast. O sweetheart! Press my heart to your heart once again. It will break there at last.

From the original poem of Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822)at


To the Virgins, to make much of time

Gather your rosebuds while you may, the time is flying fast. The flower that smiles today, tomorrow will be dying.

Sun, the glorious lamp of the heaven, the higher it gets, the sooner it will end its race, nearer to its setting.

The best years of your life are when you are young and your blood is hot. With time, the best years will become worse, then worst.

Do not be coy. Use you best time if you will. Go and get married. If you waste your prime, you’ll be messing around all your life and will be sorry.

Original poem of Robert Herrick (1591-1674)at

Monday, April 03, 2006

Tomorrow I will throw away

Tomorrow I will throw away
All my books of philosophy,
All Vedas, Bibles and Gitas.

Today I am cleaning my shelves.
I will keep all books of poetry,
Cooking and gardening.

I will dig up the beds,
Grow flowers, cucumbers
Greens, beans and onions

Potatoes, tomatoes and watermelons.
Enough of the nonsense of gods,
And of father, son and devil.

I do not need all this crap,
Nor do I need philosophers' trash.
I have my God within myself.

I have my own philosophy to live:
Peaceful in harmony with nature and
Not to pawn my brain for Bibles blabbers

And all screwed up philosophers.
They do not know what life is
and what are the ways of the world

but shamelessly show to others.

Sunday, April 02, 2006

At the airport

She watched me
When they checked my luggage,
She watched me
When they checked my papers.

Whenever I looked back
I saw her sad looks,
Her eyes meeting mine in despair.
At the gate I waved at her

Wishing her a goodbye
And a kiss in the air.
She waved back,
With tears falling from eyes.

We knew we'd never meet again.
I had to leave. But her life
Seemed to be cut short.
Like a dead statue she stood still.

A dude's desire on first date

On his first date,
he said, “I love you.”
I love you too,she said
Now what?

“Let’s go to bed.”
Why not, she said.
They went to bed
And made love.

To have you fully in me

The touch of your hand
in my hand,
the looks of your eyes
into my eyes,
your full lips
for my wet kiss
and your leaning body
against mine,
in this evening stroll
along the shore,
under the spring moon,
makes me want you now
before we get home.

My sweet darling,
this intense desire
to have you fully in me
that you become
my flesh and bones,
I have only with you.
I never felt like this before.
Destined to be together,
We're made for each other.

Friday, March 31, 2006

Are we all alone in the universe?

Are we all alone in the universe?
Could there be somewhere
People like us or just like us

Never real like ourselves?
When it’s summer, we want winter.
When winter comes, we want summer.

The rich give up money for love.
The poor give up love for money.
Still both are always unhappy.

The ego-less burst with egos.
The holy are most unholy.
The lovers of peace fight.

The politicians hunger for power.
They love unearned money.
They fail peoples’ trust like prostitutes.

The rich are most greedy.
The poor are most needy,
No one cares for them.

The preachers are unreal.
They love praise and money,
They are the most phony.

Only few have thinking brains,
Others brains go to drains
Reading their godly texts.

If there is life
Somewhere in the universe,
I pray they be not like us.

Thursday, March 30, 2006

Is it fate or what is it?

Some people walk
straight into success.
Whatever they do
turns out to be right.
They get what they wish
without much effort or fight.

I walked on twisted paths.
A myriad things in life I did.
Nothing turned out to be right.
Whatever I wanted, I never got

Is it fate or what is it?
I never could understand.
Perhaps there’s a Gaussian curve
For payouts in this world.
And I happened to be
On the wrong side of the curve.

Sometime I wish I could hate you

Your hair gray
Your teeth gone
Still you love
A pouch of tobacco
And spit everywhere.

Bowed back
You cannot stand or walk.
Shaky arms
You cannot hold a spoon.

Cataracts block the light.
Your ears cannot hear.
We wait hand and foot
On you everyday.
And yet
You complain
No one loves you.

Mama, why are
You so bitter?
Sometime I wish
I could hate you.
Can’t you see
I love you?

Wednesday, March 29, 2006

Is it ok to kiss on the first date?

An Americanized, so to say, Indian girl asks:
Is it ok to kiss on the first date?
O poor girl, you’re neither here nor there
But hanging midway between bhumi and akash
Like that Indian god stuck midway on his way to paradise.

If you are more American than Indian,
You will have to kiss many frogs
Before your prince charming comes along.
Otherwise, don’t kiss, don’t muskrar
Don’t jhapphi maar, don’t bistar par laat maar.
One day a charming maharaja will come along.

God and Women

God, why do you make fools of us?
You go to a virgin to conceive her
And send us your son to save us
From the sin of the first lady on Earth.

You send us a milk man’s son
Who pleases milk maids dancing with them
And says he is God himself.
So you do play with virgins, God. Don’t you?

You send an angel to a prophet
Who marries many women.
Four woman a man can have, he says.
Are you not a sexy beast, God?

Last night I was late

Last night I was late.
Meetings and deadlines
I had to make.
You were sleeping.
Your hair brushed,
Silky to touch,
Falling on your face.

The book of poems
Still in your hands.
A note saying:
”I miss you, my love,
Promise me
Never to be late.
I stayed awake
Past midnight,
Waiting for you
Reading your
Love poems.
Good night, my darling,
I love you, I love you.”

Your angelic face
Took my breath away.
Gently lifting your curls
I kissed your face.
I love you too, my darling.
I promise you
I’ll never be late again.

I kept on saying again and again.

He asks me if I believe in God

My dad is now stalking horses.
He sleeps alone downstairs on sofa.
He says my mom snores all night.

But he cannot sleep.
He gets up and smokes
Many times a night.
I say nothing.

He is old, not far from death.
He wants to keep peace with God,
And is not sure about God.

Perhaps he's trying
To make sense out of life.
He asks me if I believe in God.

My beliefs are pedestrian.
When we are dead, we are dead.
And will not know if once we lived.

But what we did and said,
Lives on affecting others
To whom what we did and said.

A life worth living -
Even when we’re are gone
For someone to reap after our death.

Yet, I speak to God and ask:
When this summer is gone,
Will I have another one?

Note: Based on a blog of Jan Osman at

He and his crony

There is an axis of evil there.
We will destroy them, he says.

Yes, yes. We will.
His crony says.

There are weapons
Of mass destruction there.
We will destroy them, he says.

Yes, yes. We will.
His crony says

We found no weapons
Of mass destruction.
But we made no mistake, he says

Yes, yes. We made no mistake.
His crony says.

But we attacked them anyway.
We killed them, maimed them,
To liberate them, he says.

Yes, yes. To liberate them.
His crony says.

Why he and his crony say
Whatever they wish to say?

Why is the world deaf and dumb
And lets them say what they wish to say?

The sword used to be mightier than brain.
Have we gone back to those times again?

One faith, one God

There is only one God.
He is almighty.
He knows every thing.

He spoke to many, but told
Lies to all except Gabriel
Whom he told all true things.

So rest is crap, worth not a scrap
Of a paper on which others
Wrote all other unholy things.

Adam, the first gentleman

Adam, the first gentleman
Made love to the first lady Eve.
And came Cain.

Adam made love to Eve again.
Then came Abe.
Later Cain killed Abe.

Cain married a woman he knew.
Wait. Where from she came?
For in the beginning was Adam

And from his rib Eve came.
Whose rib was it, whose foot was it,
From which the wife of Cain came?

Love’s Desire

Kiss me on my lips,
For more delightful than
Sips of wine is your kiss.

Like perfume is your name,
Spreading everywhere.
That’s why maidens love you.

I will follow you eagerly.
Take me to your chambers now.
With you I wish to please

To exult and extol your love.
Love finer than wine,
Love that’s beyond love.

A free verse rendering of Chapter 1
Of Songs of Songs in Bible

I am a lily of the valley

I am a flower, a narcissus.
I am a lily of the valley.
A lily among thorns,
Like my lover is among women.

Like an apple tree in the woods
Is my lover among men.
I delight in resting in his shadow.
His fruit is sweet to my lips.

He takes me to the feast.
He showers me with love.
He feeds me raisin cakes
And with apples he refreshes me.

If I faint in love,
He places his right hand
Under my head. And he
Embraces me with his left,
Holding me tight to himself.

O daughters of Jerusalem!
I earnestly ask you -
Do not stir up in love,
Before it’s time for love.

A free verse rendering of Chapter 2
Of Songs of Songs in the Bible.

I desired my lover

I desired my lover
In my bed last night.
He was not there,
But my heart belongs to him.

I rose early and went seraching
In the streets and the crossings.
But I did not find him.
My heart belongs to him.

I came upon the watchman
Making rounds of the city.
I asked him if he had seen the one
To whom my heart belongs.

Soon after I found him.
Took hold of him.
And did not let him go till
To my mom’s home I took him.

O daughters of Jerusalem!
I earnestly beseech you -
Do not stir up in love,
Before it’s time for love.

A free verse rendering of chapter 3
Of Songs of Songs in Bible.

My lover is mine

Where has you lover gone,
O most beautiful of all women?
Where has your love gone,
let’s help you find him.

My lover has gone
to the garden, to the beds
of spice. To browse and
gather lilies for me.

My lover is mine
and I am his. He loves
to browse among lilies.

A rendering of a song in
Songs of Songs, Bible, Chapter 6

Poetry in Politics

The relations with, uhh--
Europe are important relations,
and they've, uhh —
because, we do share values.

And, they're universal values,
they're not American values
or, you know, European values,
they're universal values.

And those values, uhh--
being universal,
ought to be applied everywhere.

~George W. Bush
at a press conference with European Union
dignitaries, Washington, D.C., June 20, 2005

He is a shy baby

Everyday he comes
to say good morning
and at five he wishes me
good evening

During the day
he finds pretexts
to dilly-dally around my desk.
He likes me, I know

But he does not know
How to ask me out.
He is a shy baby.
I am going to get him.

Fancy, why I love wintry days

The pillow is soft under my head,
I feel your warmth in my arms.
It is a wintry day on Sunday,
We want to linger on in the bed.

It’s cloudy and windy out side,
With showers of snows and rains.
The streets are quiet, I only hear
The splatter of rain against window panes.

We will have our Philly cheese bagel
And our coffee in the bed. We will
Get under our comforter; hug, kiss,
Feel each other and make love all day.

In the evening by the fire place,
We will sit and sip red wine -
A bottle of burgundy from Bordeaux
And Merlot from west coast vines.

We will listen to Mozart and Vivaldi,
We will watch a movie on CD,
We will talk love talks and
I'll jump into bed with my darling

To bite her neck, to give her kisses,
To press her breasts against my chest,
To fondle her and make love to her
All night, over and over again.

Fancy, why I love wintry days.

Tuesday, March 28, 2006

Night of Honeymoon

It will be the night
Of dreams of his youth
When he sees his bride.
She’ll be sitting on a bed in the suite,
In a pink choli and a red silken sari
Flowered with golden threads
On the borders, matching her choli.
All fresh and perfumed,
Rouge on her cheeks,
Mascara on lashes,
A red dot on her forehead,
A locket in the parting of her hair
Red bangles on her wrists,
A gold necklace shining with diamonds
And gems around her neck.
Garlands of roses,
Of dahlia and marigold
Will be hanging along the bed posts.
The room will be dimly lit.
A smoldering incense stick,
Some sweets, flowers and fruits
Will be on the table,
Next to the bed
Of bride and groom.

When he enters the suite,
She will not lift her gaze,
She will continue staring
Her red manicured nails.
Their hearts will beat a little faster
And deep breaths they will take.

They never did converse
Before. He will say words of love,
Words of endearment:
Hi, my dear, my beautiful bride,
Look at me, why don't
You say a word to me.

She will try to keep her head
Bent towards her knees
Shying away from him
And proving she is
So innocent, so pure.

On their first night together,
Two strangers who never met,
Never shared a word before,
Will fall in love forever for life.

Man is dead before he is born

The movie maker thinks
of bizarre things.
Today he said,
How can you know me,
I do not really exist.
I am but a whiff
of conscience
spread across the universe

He is busy
shooting films
day and night.
But on his breaks
he takes a piss
and talks a lot
of horse shit:
like there is no space,
there is no time,
man is dead before he is born.

But he does not tell how
anything could happen
without space and time.
For him everything is
an unending
limitless continuum
of something, something
he calls superconscious –
a supernatural entity
that is in itself is itself,
that is what
Hindus call That.
So that is That
is all That.
That is why
He does not exist.
That is why
we cannot know him.
Like God.

Monday, March 27, 2006

Waiting to give you a rose

Can’t you see, can’t you tell –
The way you look at me and smile,
In your heart wanting me –
My heart melts for you
And I desire you, I desire you…

I wish I could grab you,
Hold you in a tight hug,
Give you a passionate kiss,
And tell you: I’d love
To have you, to have you…

I will be tonight at seven
Corner of Cathedral and Broadway,
Waiting to give you a rose
And to tell you I love you.
Be there at seven, sharp.

Make love to me tonight

Kiss me, kiss me
Hold me tight
I am crazy for you
Make love to me tonight

Bite my neck
Whisper love words
Lose your breath
Making love to me tonight

Once won’t be enough
I want it over and over
All thorough the night
Many times

I am restless
Burning in passion
I can’t wait
Cool me down tonight

Make love, yes darling
Make love to me tonight
Holding me tight
Showering me with kisses

Of love, fondling me,
Playing with my breasts
Changing positions as
You like, as I like, all night

Once won’t be enough
I want it over and over
All thorough the night
Many times

An Homage to King Menkure and His Bride

The Egyptian King Mencure
And his lovely bride,
(Perhaps one of his many wives)
Pose, standing side by side.

His chest is bare,
A cap on his hair,
With flaps falling
Down on ears in a pair.
What’s on his chin-a goatee?
Scanty loincloth
Wrapped around his waist
Kept by a belt in its place.
What’s that funny underwear—
A flappy rectangle hanging there
Covering his genitals?
His arms hang onto his sides.
A stern look in his eyes.
Bare legs and feet,
Looks healthy like a bull.

His beautiful bride
Is standing on his side,
Showing her bare lovely breasts.
She is nude except her half-panties.
Her long hair falls on her breasts.
His cap-flaps, her hair, match in style.
Her right arms goes around his waist.
Her left arm, elbow bent, traces her torso,
Reaching his bare biceps.
She is beaming with love,
Embracing him thus.

Her subdued smile,
Her raised cheeks,
(is she hiding her giggling?)
She's as if bubbling in love.
Her crescent eyes,
Look straight into your eyes.
Happy to be the King’s bride,
She can’t hide her pride.
She wants to let the world
And all his other wives know,
in this show of love:
He loves me. He's all mine.

Note: Inspired by a photograph of an
ancient, circa 2490 B.C., Egyptian sculptor
of King Menkure and his bride.

Sunday, March 26, 2006

A Love Duet

She -
Do you remember long ago
Under an oak tree
You promised me your love
And I gave myself to you…

He -
Do you remember long ago
When I met you
I could not keep
My eyes off you
And I fell in love…

Both -
Yes I remember
I remember,
I fell instantly in love
I still love you my darling
You are my life
My sweetheart…

She -
Do you remember our wedding day
When I was in white
You were all smiles
Nodding you head saying:
I do, I do

He -
Do you remember our wedding night
I carried you in my arms
We stayed awake all night
Drinking champagne
And making love...

Both -
Do you remember long ago,
Under the oak tree
You promised me your love
And I gave myself to you…

Both -
Do you remember long ago
When I met you
I could not keep
My eyes off you
And I fell in love…

I cannot sleep tonight

You’re now boarding your flight,
You will be here tomorrow,
With me, in my arms.

Lying in bed,
Seeing your photos,
I cannot sleep tonight.

The moment I see you,
I will run to you,
Kissing you I’ll give you a rose.

It has been so long
I’ve not touched you,
Kissed you, held you
Against my breasts.

I am lying in bed,
Thinking of you.
I cannot sleep tonight.

You are goddamn dumb

Mysteries of sickness are many fold:
In fact so many, they are untold.
Even if there’s no mystery

A mystic self-help guru
Wants you to believe it’s mystery,
So that he can help you.

You are goddamn dumb,
If you’ve nothing better to do
Than hoping to get sick and die.

If you invoke sickness
To end your life,
You’re a sicko sissy.
You don't deserve a life.

But if your doc finds
Why you are really sick,
You'll get sicker and sicker

And die in days, very quicker,
Going to mystic medics,
For some quick fix.

So what's the mystery?
There's no mystery.
Any bull-shit can be
A mystery, if you believe in it.

Andy, the farm hand

Today I talked to Andy, the farm hand.
Mid-fities, slim, front teeth chipped,
Hornets basket-ball cap on his head,
Face wrinked like dry desert dates.

He was in Wrangler jeans,
Angus Farms embossed his shirt.
“Why do you carry so many keys, Andy,
dangling from your belt?” I asked.

“I have a key to every room,
every barn in the farm.
my boss trusts me even for a stalk of hay
and he is so smart he can make

a buck out of a half-penny,” said he.
Andy hauls heifers from the farm
to the local stock yard every month,
about twenty in a truck load.

Each head sells for about
four to five hundred bucks
and thus it brings home
about a thousand bucks

he deciphered this figure
squinting his eyes,
scratching his head.
“Wow, really!” I said.

“Yes, my boss is very smart,
he can make a buck
out of a half-penny.” he said,
smilingly again sheepishly.

“ I am blessed. I love my job,
my boss and my family.
I want not much in life.”
he went on to say. “You are a
happy man, Andie.” I told him smilingly.

He reaffirmed my faith:
Living not wanting is happiness.
Not screwing your head is happiness.
Throwing you worries to the winds is happiness.
Happiness is when you do not look for happiness.

Friday, March 24, 2006

The Earth Is Flat

Though it seems strange,
But in the Old Testament
Everything is very clear-
The Earth is flat.
Above us a dome, a firmament.
Above that, the Heaven,
Where God lives.
Under our feet,
Beneath the ground
Water, water everywhere.
Flat Earth stands on many pillars,
Standing in the water.
Standing on what, don't ask.
When good people die,
They go upward to heaven.
When bad people die
They go downward to hell.
Is there anything more?
I don't know. Don't ask
Amen! Amen!

from Which One Is Your God?

For My Hispanic and Latino Friends

Por Mi Amigos Hispanico Y Latino

Dear amigo, do not shy away,
Do not hide from me,
Do not feel you’re
Below any one of us.

We are all alike,
We too like mariachi,
Burritos and tostodas,
Cerveza and margaritas.

Your culture is rich,
Richer than our ours.
You family ties put
Rest of us to shame.

For your love por madre y padre,
y esposo o esposa,
tios y tias,
ninos y ninas,
I salute you.

I see you with your family,
All members young and old.
All small and tall,
Picnicking in parks

Shopping in malls,
Banking in banks,
Together for a stroll.
If someone is sick

You all together stick,
Visiting the doc,
Waiting for hours in halls.
For that too I salute you.

You know how to live -
Siestas - you take life easy.
You know how to love,
So passionate in blood.

Your poetry of romance,
No one can write better.
Octavio Paz, Gabriel Marquez
Carlos Fuentes, Pablo Neruda
I salute them all.