Daybreak
It is not so much the blade of day
that slices the morning's eye open
as that it begins anyway
uncoerced and softly-spoken
breathing in the yeasty
rising breeze; and warms its fingers
on the rose-glow of clouds steep-
stacked and neat-racked by the sun's balusters;
begins despite the clamour and the war cry
of the blown conch, the dawn prayer
the challenge of javelin voices that vie
to fling their chants through the air.
Morning comes like a man used to
lying awake waiting for tomorrow.
Red Chillies
113° Fahrenheit on
the third day of May.
In Guntur
every red chilli in the market
as if by concert
bursts
into sharp-tongued flames
and
the air breaks
into loud
applause.
No Thirteen Ways About It
The beauty of inflections
Or the beauty of innuendoes
- Wallace Stevens
Slant your rhymes which way you will
Varuna, each wave only sways to one will
Plant your deep-rooted feet upon the shore
Abandon for a while the shifting clay of your will
Show me a face I know as little as I know mine
I'll follow my fingers and obey the dictates of their will
Though the scrapyards are filled with abandoned words
We could salvage a few from decay if you will
Songs the birds whirled in the autumn winds
Dance still unruly swayed by no one will
Long only for the elusive and contrary, Sridala
Spike the everyday upon the point of your will
