Poem No. 13
It’s an obligation, that I should write you downOn water, land, in space, on the body of the mountain,
on the platform, in head of the sun,
On the moon, she rests, strangely satisfied
In the night sky, the constellations laugh under their breath
In torn shreds, flyingly, across Nineveh’s blue library
If I go by the fiery alphabet, and the fall of tearson wounds, blood, books, in this huge worldSo many stories could have been spun between us Between you and me
Poem 17
I retreat the moment my ideas begin to riot.My hands—knotted.My legs are tied with chains.Push me,fling me into any corner.Watch how the distressed poem is tearful.
Should I fall into mud,let the watch abandon its hands
Let the phone grow mute,
Scratch it, bite it
My sorrowful heart gasps for air
Strip me,let the hay be tornlike startled feathers.
Still the afternoon beckonsour appointed hour.
Each day the bathwater blushes blue—Bay of Bengal—your gentle mischieftilts the currents inside me.