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Poems

A poem to fill space Taboo Baboo Poetry as I...
Heroes & History Schrodingers Cat Ashura
The Two Towers Weight of Memory Cosmic Classroom
An old Iraqi Goth Heaven 9001
Death of a moon Some things I like You should've...
Why I write A simple man A strange friendship
Love bytes A touch of the Ocean When you went...
To my sons Search... Burden of Truth
Value of Life This thing called Sex! Creation

A poem to fill space

I wrote this poem,
only to fill this space,
because I am terrified
of emptiness.
So I am not worried
if its prosaic
or pointless
as long as it fills the space,
because, as I told you,
I am terrified
of emptiness.
We all know that,
when something’s empty
something has to take its place,
It’s something about pressure
and vacuum.
That’s how a vacuum cleaner
sucks,
emptiness which it must fill with
dust.
So if I leave this space empty,
I am afraid the letters
of the other poems in this
page will be sucked
into this space
Muddling them,
Befuddling them.

So, like people,
there are poems too,
that’s only there to fill space



Taboo Baboo

In the city of Katmandu
Katmandu, Katmandu!
There was a boy called Taboo Baboo,
“Taboo Baboo! Taboo Baboo!”
He caused a lot of hullabaloo
Hullabaloo, hullabaloo!
When he hopped to class on a kangaroo
Kangaroo, kangaroo!
That he stole from the local zoo!
The local zoo, the local zoo!
His teachers yelled “That’s taboo!”
“That’s taboo, that’s taboo!”
But he just shouted, “Woohoo Yahoo!”
“Woohoo Yahoo! Woohoo Yahoo!”
Jumping on his Kangaroo!
Kangaroo! Kangaroo!
And showing off his chest tattoo!
Chest tattoo, chest tattoo
Of a naked girl with just a shoe!
Just a shoe! Just a shoe!
The schoolkids screamed with much ado
Much ado, Much ado,
The teachers tried to subdue,
To subdue, to subdue!
This terror called Taboo Baboo!
Taboo Baboo! Taboo Baboo!
They tried to hit him with a long bamboo!
A long bamboo, a long bamboo!
He scared them off with some Kung Fu
Some Kung Fu, some Kung Fu!
And beat them up, red and blue
Red and blue, red and blue.
Know what came of Taboo Baboo?
“Taboo Baboo! Taboo Baboo?”
Well, he’s now the mayor of Katmandu
Katmandu, Katmandu!


Poetry As I See It

The poem is the pattern,
Not the words.
It is larger than the sum of the words
It is emergent
Not reducible.
It is the idea
Not the form;
the form is but fluff.
The poet who is obsessed
with fluff is still
a child who has not outgrown
his toy.

The poem is not separate
from the poet; the poet
is an essential part.

The poem is larger than the poet.
The poet is also larger than the poem

The reductionist is not a poet;
he does not understand poetry,
he is its murderer.
He is a victim of the Fallacy of Composition.

A poem is a manifestation of Wholeness;
A Bohmian Wholeness of Implicate Order.
(The Explicate Order is
of Simplicity and Coherence.)
A good poem must die after it’s read,
must transcend language
leaving just its lingering suchness,
like the scent of a perfume,
like a ghost haunting the rooms of your mind,
like the contrails of a jet after it has passed.
A good poem must disturb the reader,
must anger him, must make him love
and hate—hate even the poem.

Does a poem need images?
Images add flavour but a poem
should not rest on them.
To use an image, they are the ornaments
of a bride. If the ornaments are too much
they hide the bride’s inherent beauty,
make her stoop by the weight of gold.
Are you marrying the bride or her ornaments?

Why must one write poetry?
Don’t write poetry for your father
or mother or teacher or son.
Don’t write poetry to impress
academics, those self-appointed pundits of poetry.
Don’t write poetry to meet deadlines.
Don’t sit at your desk and say,
“Today I am going to write a poem.”
Write when you must,
when you cannot hold it back any longer.

People always tell me not to use certain words
like “soul” and “memories” in poetry.
I tell them to “go fly a kite”,
to use another cliché.
I don’t write for them who have read
too much of poetry,
they who have been deluded by form,
they who have come to believe that
the best poems are the least understood,
they who do not know what they like.

I have often heard poets say,
“There is no money in poetry
and no poetry in money.”
I ask them—Why
is there no money in poetry?
Because no one wants to read poetry anymore.
Why does no one want to read poetry?
Because the poet has distanced himself
from society. He writes in a language
no one understands. He wallows
in his incoherence.

And there is poetry in money.
In fact money is flush with poetry,
Ask anyone but the poet
When coins jingle in your pockets,
doesn’t it sound like poetry?

A poem is not the laboratory of language,
It is a medium of ideas and opinions
It is a conduit of passions.


On Heroes and History

Do we need history, do we need rear-view mirrors?
Can't we go forward without looking back,
the bloody trails we left behind.

Is not History the embarrassment of Man?
A thread of his infinite humiliations;
a body of old wounds well preserved
for future festering,
wounds breeding wounds—a mitosis of misery;
a tribute to little men
who became heroes
and then gods by revision and revolt.

Do we need heroes, do we need the shining distant light?
Can't we be led by the compass of our mind,
the light behind our eyes?
Let us close our tainted eyes,
our tarnished ears,
go blind into the world,
sail deaf over the map of time,
be alive in little things.
Be little people,
implode into our smallness,
endlessly falling in.
Let us not grow into heroes,
grow into gods, grow armies,
grow bloodblooms in battlefields.

Do we need dead gods, do we need a hole of a sun?
Let us bury the dead god and burn his books.

For Truth mutates forever.

Let every messenger speak
and when he falls
let us throw the flash-cards of his truth into
the savage flames of his pyre.
Let us renew, reconfigure, forget
forget, forget, forget…
and then the meme shall die with the messiah,
and we will live in an eternal now,
in newness, in constant discovery,
in a world without clichés.

Let us have brand-new gods every day,
An endless fount of new Truths to play.
Let us hum the Mantra of the mud,
of this private god that is smaller than us,
that is enchained in the cage of our chest.

Let us
in simplicity
dissolve.


Schrodinger's Cat

When Schrodinger’s Cat
died and didn’t die,
he went to heaven
and stayed in the box on Earth.
When he stretched himself in the box,
he stretched himself in heaven.
When he licked his paw in heaven,
he licked his paw in the box.
“Am I alive or dead? One or two?”
he asked God,
his eyes falling with boredom
in the box and in heaven.
“Why do you ask?” God asked
lowering His gaze at the feline.
“Well, I can see the insides of the box
as clearly as I can see these clouds of
Heaven and You.”
“You’re still one,” said God, looking around,
“Just that Heaven has just been boxed
by some stupid scientist.”


Ashura -- 20 February 2005

The chainwhips awaken
a hundred eyes on their backs.
Red tears trail the streets
to the gold-domed tomb of Husain.
A golden spider with legs of blood.
Wails shake the sky the minaret props.
But today, for every lash for Husain,
a lash will tear for a wardead son.


The Two Towers

There is a leaning tower in Mosul1,
not as famous as the one in Pisa,
nor as rich,
but older by a year and so-
like elder brothers-taller.
Mudfleshed of the same mother,
bent like a stalk of wheat
caught in the wind.
And when the muezzin calls out
to the faithful, the minaret
would whisper soft salaams
that would get caught by
the dry breath of the Shamal2
and carried by the clouds
over the Mediterranean
to be delivered to his
Christian brother.
And in joy, this Christian brother
would reply through the peal
of his bells, carried by
the skin of their mother.

Through the centuries,
the brothers conversed thus;
in the language of the wind and the rain,
and the tolling bells,
while standing bowed,
in mutual respect,
like old men.
And like old men,
they talked of their children
who grew of the mud
around them,
prospered, built palaces, sprouted wings...


But now the Shamal is strained
by the wail of the elder
as blood soaks his feet,
and the younger hangs his head in shame.
************
(1) Mosul - a place in Northern Iraq. It is one of the three major cities of the country; the other two being Baghdad and Basra. The tower of Mosul, which forms part of Nurid Mosque, was built in 1172. A year later, the construction of the tower of Pisa began.
(2) Shamal - dry winds that sweep across Iraq, Jordan, Kuwait in a north-westerly direction.


Weight of Memory

When you think of it, it is just data;
patterns recorded in the temporal lobe-
that VCR of grey meat,
shaped like the withered thumb
of a retired boxing glove.

Data is weightless;
when you erase old messages 
in your mobile phone,
do you expect it to become lighter?

Yet why is it that 
an old regret
bends your back,
and puts lead in your feet?

There must be an erase button somewhere...


The Cosmic Classroom

We can learn much from the cosmos;
Of love and life,
Of eternity and silence,
Of the face of God, when He sleeps...

Is gravity not the love between stars?
Of the parent Sun to keep
close his family; the little ones
nearer, the bigger ones in orbits
more distant, more private.
His love is in the light,
selfless and even suicidal,
burning through time, without pause.

Is the Sun a mother or a father?
I have wondered. Being a father myself,
I would like to see me in him.
Fathers too can love selflessly, 
burning through time, without pause.
So then, where is the mother
of these spinning marbles?
Is she not the silent Space,
vast and with infinite wombs,
where the planets play through eternity?
Mothers are by nature invisible,
their love, unseen,
taken for granted.
Yet omnipresent like Space
forever washing the faces of her
rolling children, grooming them
in the light of their father.
While in the love of her husband,
Space warps and wraps around the Sun,
in a snug hug.


An old Iraqi in a new classroom

At the far end of Rashid street, there once stood a cafe,
brightly lit as all Baghdadi cafes,
where thick veined men in tweed jackets would sit
around marbletop tables shuffling dominoes.
Some with arms and eyes unwound would smoke 
and sip bitter qahwwa or sweetened chai from 
tiny gold-rimmed glass cups,
while losing themselves in the wrenching lilt
of Um Khaltoum shaking love out of her breast;
Um Khaltoum of the long trembling handkerchief
clenched white in her hands; 
Um Khaltoum, legend of the Nile.

Today Um Khaltoum is dead and forgotten. 
The cafe is a mound of rubble; 
product of the shock that awed
men to ghosts and dominoes to dust.
But I know that in this dust I shall 
find, like diamonds hard and glittering, 
an American freedom
that also comes packed and labelled 
in the coffins of my sons.
But I must not mourn my sons as I must mourn
the Marine who shot them and then fell
to a cowardly RPG, for I must learn the
new Algebra that tells me: 
"one noble Marine equals a hundred Eye-raqis".
And I must understand that the great roads
of Freedom that shall be built on
these coffins of my wretched sons
are to teach my grandsons the John Wayne swagger,
when they walk into the sunsets of the future.
I must learn new truths that teach
me Saddam, after all, does not own my God; 
it is George Bush who does.
I must learn that our oil is purer
than our blood and above all, our oil is not our oil. 
That our land, this land
that cradled Man, mothered the great
Hammurabi and Nebuchadnezzar,
is now a whore. 
The Whore of Babylon.
The Whore of the Neo Con men.
The Whore of the oil men who will
sink their thick shafts deep into her and suck 
her black blood in exchange for such 
precious things as hamburgers and toilet paper.
I must learn to see the goodness
in this act of incessant sodomy by this
Great Keeper of my God on 
this dirty Whore to cleanse her to 
a star-spangled goodness
and broadcast this great pornography to
the penisless men of the world.

And I must be awed by the magnanimity
of this Great Keeper, in his willingness to
share the holes of this Whore
with his pet poodles to leave
their weak piss-marks on.
And I must learn to cherish the glorious
pearls that drop from the mouths of
Bush, Blair and Beelzebub.
And I must learn to revel in their
excrement, for they, these man-gods,
have my God on a leash. 

I have much to learn. 

And before that, 

I have much to unlearn.


Goth

Your lips were black,
Your kiss blacker,
Yet it shone like rain
on the nightest things of the city.

Your scent, sicksweet,
of pressed roses
revealed by ancient tomes,
releasing the dry ghost of an unrequited love.

Your face as ashen as
the sawdust coating
the slight mounds of my chest
to suck the sweated blood breaking on my skin.

And your blood so black
that the bloated moon
turned paler still and pulled
a cloud overhead, like a child trembling under a blanket.

And your blood so thick
that it rolls like
hot tar, but with the richness
of death or everlasting life, over the soft pink of my tongue.


Heaven 9001

Can there be misery
in days that move
with precision?

Cloned days,
conveyor-belted and quality checked
to perfection.

Of course, I am peddling
my god; can't you see
he is ISO certified?


Death of a moon

A bite of a moon
                   floats unwet,

the wind in its
                   rippled sails spent,

it hooks on a breath
                   of these waters,

to lie limp
                   at my astonished feet.

The inkbled sky
                   has come undone

and spills the heavens
                   on heaving surf;

as the million eyes
                   of the watered night

sink silently
                   to sleep.

The crayon clouds fall
                   gently, like autumn fronds

and lie lost, listless
                   on a dying sea

that delivered
                   a dead moon to me.


Some things I like

I like these laundered days,
          crisp and bright,
and with the full promise
          of an unopened letter
                    …from a long lost friend.

I like letters
          hand-written, not lasercut,
                    with catcurled words
                              stringing artless alphabets
                                        like school children holding hands
                                                  about to cross a street;
                    words with moods and character
                              and a curious hunger.

I like words that come
          with the wind
                    against my window;
          with starbuds blooming
                    in the black garden of the night,
          washed in with the rain
                    puddling in the cracks
                              and crevices of my dried bones.

I like the rain
          that rivers through
                    my lifeline etched
                              on my palm,
          washing away my sins
                    and my memories of my sins,
                              sinking the hundred
                                        islands of my heartline.

I like memories
          of those youthful days
                    carried by the cadence of the radio,
          before the television
                    spread its million fingers
                              over my stainless skies.

I like these laundered days...


You should have known

You should have known
when you gently pushed
your little boat
into this secret sea
that you could be
tossed to shouting clouds
and be wasted
by a hydra-head
of a black storm
rising.

You should have known
when you swallowed the demons
that they would even poison
the spit of your mind,
turning you against you,
sucking you into a
spiralling whorl of
madness.

You should have known
that the light you seek
with this craving earnestness
could eventually be a laughing lie;
charring you to a cinder;
to a walking log of
coal.

You should have known
that in this twirling battle
you could lose
the pearls of rice treasured in
your deathless pits;
not just your tattered shirt
that you were ready
to discard at the knife-edge of
time

You should have known
not to believe
the living lines
of the haloed man
with eyes soft as lotus pith;
lines that quivered in
your brain like freshly caught fish;
lines that sang of the goal
and the path and the stark line
between.

You should have known
that the goal is the path;
the path, the goal,
and life, the biggest
lie.


Why I write

My wife once asked why I write so much,
“Hardly anyone reads your stuff,” she said
with a shrug and went back to her ironing. 
Her words dug into my flesh 
like the talons of a desert hawk. 
I know my muted voice is lost in the groan
of the world. Do I write to be heard?
Or do I write to deliver the words 
that I am forever pregnant with?
Do I need you, who hear me now,
to peck at my children and tell me
of their clichéd blemishes?
Do I need you to nail my lines to a board
and open them up and poke at their
beating innards? Do I need you to
prepare slides of them and microscope
them and tell me of their ailments?
Why am I writing all this that shall
anyway be lost in the
fleeting memories of this planet?
I think, I write to release my word-laden spirit.
— Like the monsoon cloud that dissolves in the rain.
— Like the salmon that journeys upstream to spawn and perish.
— Like the dandelion that scatters its seeds in the wind… to wilt.
Their existence is in their release.
So with every line I write,
I die a little bit.
And I am that much closer
to Nirvana.


A Simple Man

I am a simple man;
I wear my little mind
around my aching feet,
like battle-worn boots;
its tiny compass
leading me through
warrens of memories
and streets of numbered faces.

I am a simple man;
in the train
my mouth gapes, shamelessly,
at melonskins and plump nectarines
that peep from teasing satin and
low-slung denim;
and I am sated.
Easily.

I am a simple man,
but I must move on,
for if I stay,
roots sprout from my soles
and burrow deep into the earth.
My hands become branches
and tendrils shoot from my hair
inviting the Bird of Gloom
to build its nest
in the cave of my chest.

I am a simple man;
I will let my hair
long and wild;
my beard shall flow
carelessly in the wind —
in the rush of descent
my hair shall fly like flame,
and in that earth-kiss
I shall scatter like
a thousand beads of glass.

I am a simple man,
I shall make love to her
the night before;
ceaseless love,
until, in her pupilless
whites I shall see
the birth of a universe.

I am a simple man,
for I have no beginning,
nor an end
— no, I shall not die
for I was never born —
but only a lean middle
that stretches like a thin snake;
headless and tailless.

I am a simple man.


A strange friendship

He was the grand-dad of my next-door chum;
a man with a curious smell
of rusted bones in fusty flesh.
A web-skinned powdery man,
shriveled like a pickle,
moldy like a memory.
The first time I saw him unbent
was when they lay
him under white sheets
with face exposed
to the rafters bowing in reverence.
From his sleeping eyes
the King of Time
said “Hello, how do you do?”
and quaked my dreams for a month.

As my limbs grew and the
years slipped away like
the eaten miles,
he moved fast, this King;
played his moves,
toppled a distant pawn,
a close knight, sometimes.
I make a mental list of
my felled pieces, some fond
ones whose last squares
lie vacant still, as if
cordoned off after a horrible crime.

With the single dark king
to represent himself,
he conquers and
like the Grandmaster of Time
that he is, drifts away after
every move to another table,
to another checkmate.

With a strange wonderment
I ask this King,
who has by now become
familiar — even friendly,
like a co-passenger in a long journey —
when my king
will fall to his icy hands.
He smiles cryptically
telling me nothing
and moves on with
a rook that I so loved.


Love Bytes

You
are the virus
in the bootsector of my brain.
A trojan
who sneaked in
through my dreams
and unloaded your sweet poison,
enslaving my devices,
my ports,
my processors,
my RAM memories,
my mother-of-all boards,
my hard
disc.

You
are my blue screen
of death.
Yet
I live for you
sweetly infected.


A Touch of the Ocean

In the silence of the self
dive deep.
With persistence, one day
you may find
a firefly light.
Nurture the light,
let your ego fade,
and then you shall feel
the touch of the Ocean
within.
Then exploding
like a million fiery suns
let the tongues of God-fire
consume you
like a raging furnace
of violent bliss.
Let the burdens of
past lives be charred
to the ash of nothingness.
Then merge into
that Nothingness
of everything
and be one with it!
Let your soul songs
turn your sufferings
into a flower-path
to the divine garden
of light and love.
Then from such
timeless sky-heights
you shall come down
like the rain
to a parched earth.
For there are flowers to bloom,
wounds to heal,
and work to do.


When you went away...

When you went away
my little apartment
grew...
... and grew
and swallowed me
in a sea of silence.

The other day in the bus
I saw lovers cuddling...
I looked away;
my eyes fell on the seat beside me;
full of emptiness.

Nights--
I stare at the dark ceiling
and count my heartbeats
bouncing off the walls
till I run out of numbers.

Your pillow still
smells of your shampoo,
and I wrap it in plastic
to trap the smells
so they don't fly away
like you did.

They say the walls have ears;
soak up voices, sounds, sighs
like a thirsty sponge.
I knock on my walls
to see if they release
your laughter.

My mind is a busy intersection.
Thoughts flit about
Up and down,
Left and right,
Like speeding cars.
Behind the wheel of every car
is you.

My mirror tells me
I am still whole,
complete,
unbroken.
How they lie
to your face!


To my sons

When I saw you in the soft white glow,
Of hospital wrap, ten years ago,
When I looked in those eyes, shut tight,
Tears of love blurred my sight.

When I held you in my proud arms,
My legs felt jealous of my palms
That touched your tender soft skin,
And grazed the valley of your chin.

Until that moment, your mother and I
Were just a couple; and then your cry
Made us a family, whole, complete,
With pride & love in our hearts replete.

As I held you, God's great reward,
That plain grey hospital ward,
Transformed into the most wondrous place,
A family can possibly grace.

Sweet Vishnu, my first-born child,
From the moment you first smiled,
You changed our days and gave reason,
To our aimless lives, my dear son.

Still there was room, we began to feel,
For the love our hearts couldn't conceal,
And then you came along, to multiply
That love of ours, my darling Sai.

You've taught us much, I shall confide,
That love shared is surely multiplied,
Your guilelessness is indeed your strength,
That shall take you, your life's long length.

One day I will lie, tired and weak,
Too frail to stand and loudly speak,
And then the time will visit my bed,
To take my breath and leave me dead.

You my first son, shall light my fire
That shall rage the embers of my funeral pyre,
And you my second, shall grant my frailty,
The secret Treasure of Immortality.


Search - In an urban canvas

The creeping emptiness,
invades by stealth,
slowly,
but surely.
For excitement, I change
my timings; randomly,
with the risk
of losing my job
(a small price!).
To work,
I am early one day,
late the next,
all for the thrill
of seeing new faces
in the train!
Excitement-
not the branded, packaged, and barcoded,
not the made-up, perfumed, and pushed-up,
not the bump'n grind of endless nights,
where even laughter comes with a price tag!
For excitement, I risk
the never-to-be-risked;
play a game of dice,
with life,
on the board,
of an urban dream.
Yet, am I living dangerously
for the sake of it?
I ask
to an empty silence.
Then, this too becomes a bore,
a predictable chore.
I slowly turn
and look
inwards.
I then inquire,
question,
experiment.
I have found
the excitement ultimate!-
The depths of self-discovery!


The burden of Truth

The burden of Truth
so overwhelming
I scream -
"I am not the One",
silently.
Was it, then,
in sincere thirst
or in rank playfulness
that I sought the Light?
I ask and realise,
with anguish,
I have ceased to know
myself.
Or is it this
deep troubling fear
of too many bonds
that I cannot break,
too many vices
that I still enjoy,
too many dreams
to realise.

I am not the One.


The value of Life

"Aircrash compensation - 1 million per head"
Screamed the headlines, in letters red,
In modest print, the tenth page said,
"Bus accident-10,000 to those of dead"
"What is the value of a life?"
"Yours or mine?" asked my wife,
"Does it matter?" my eyebrows raised,
"Oh Yes! It does!" she looked amazed,
"Before you ask the how and why,"
Her eyes flashed, my throat was dry,
"Ask what unit you measure the years,
In dollars-cents, laughter-tears,
Seconds lived, friends/enemies made,
Words said/unsaid, kilograms weighed,"
She paused a second, poured coffee more,
Wiped her hand on the gown she wore,
She smiled at me to my pondering look,
I shifted my glance; a toast I took.
"Tell me, dear," she continued,
"I do not want to start a feud,
Would it be in the sweet kisses you gave,
Or the terrible hardships borne brave,
Could your life be gauged by the faces lit,
With smiles evoked by your clumsy wit,
No, it must be the good deeds done,
And the genuine praises won,
The lives you touched, promises kept,
While the others soundly slept."
At this point, I could no more take,
I blurted out, "For God's sake,
I asked a question, simple, straight,
And you go ahead and complicate,
I've gotta go; the bus won't wait,
The boss will fire me if I am late,
By the way, why do you say,"
I broke my step at the doorway,
"Despite being man and wife,
You think the value of your life,
Is different from that of mine,"
Her smile was wry, that was a sign
Her devious mind held a plan,
To outwit me in some way she can,
I held my breath as her mouth spoke,
The words, I feared, would make me choke,
"You stand there in dashing suit,
A Rolex gold - an expensive loot,
Handcrafted shoes; O! such poise,
Laptop, Palmtop, Desktop- costly toys,
While here I am wearing a rag,
Looking much like an old hag,
Dirt and grime cover my gown,
I have no clothes to go to town,
My golden chain has lost its shine,
There is little of value that is mine,
While you look like Prince Charming,
I am like your maid in mourning,
Now, pray tell me, whose life is of value,
Yours or mine, of possessions few,
I'll tell you what; you can balance the score,
I saw this diamond at the jewellery store..."
Her smile was sweet, from ear to ear,
While my mind was filling with fear,
I knew this could do much harm,
So I cut in, turned on my charm,
"My dear, you have a heart of gold,
While mine, you say, is stone cold,
Your eyes are diamonds of dazzling fire,
Priceless pieces one cannot aspire,
Your body beautiful needs no adornment,
And your fine face needs no ornament"
I could tell she knew my game,
By the way she stiffened her frame,
Cup in hand; I gotta get out!
Before she throws it and starts to shout,
I closed the door, heard the cup crash,
And then followed the tongue lash,
"Cheapskate, stingy, selfish mutt,"
Was all I heard as the gate shut.
I was reminded of the words of Orwell,
About some animals being more equal.


This thing called Sex!

"What is this thing called sex, Dad?"
Quizzed, my curious ten year old lad.
Soft music stopped, party-chatter froze,
Menon jolted from his drunken doze,

The pudding hit Mrs.Thomas's chin,
My boss's face beamed a whisky grin,
"Be a shport, Hari, you bumbling ass,"
Liquour spilled from his brimming glass,

"Tell the boy of the birds and the bees,"
"Of Adam-Eve, the birth of babies,"
To you, my friend, yes, you the reader,
I must admit, I am no great leader

Nor much of a father, you may surmise,
I am not a fool, but neither too wise,
To have told the kids of the facts of life;
Of what gets done, when man and wife.

It may have been the beers in me,
Or the fact that I could nowhere see
My wife, within any earshot length,
That must've been what gave me strength.

"Species Enlarging X-ercise," said I,
Looking my boy straight in the eye,
"Something we do to populate,"
"Strip, stimulate and copulate."

"Simply Ecstatic X-perience," quipped Ted,
And smacked his lips - the sly newly wed.
"Superbly Erotic X-cursion," Joe, thirty-one,
Raised his beer and added, "Ah, what fun,"

"Sweaty, Enervating, X-hausting," Iyer, mid forties,
As an afterthought warned, "And causes disease."
"Slight Erection - X-hilaration!" Nair, sixty-plus,
"That's what sex is for grandpas like us."

"But, Dad," cried my boy in despair,
He showed me a form, a questionnaire,
"Please tell me how to get all that in
This little box marked - Your sex, fill in."


Creation

In the Beginning there was no beginning,
A timeless Eternity, an infinite Nothingness,
Then a seed of thought, a will, a feeling,
Wrought by Boredom or the long Weariness?

(Who thought the thought?
Who felt the feeling?
What Consciousness, what Mind, what
was the nature of this Being?)

Thus Change took birth, and Time its twin,
And from Nothingness came Energy great,
Then an equal measure of Gravity to win
This new Universe, unborn yet, delicate.

The Trinity came in many a form,
Nothingness, Change and flowing Time;
Nothingness, Gravity and the Energy storm;
Nothingness, Anti- and Matter sublime.

In all these groups one may note right,
Nothingness common and without attribute,
A face without features, eyes without sight
Ears without hearing, a blind deaf mute.

All Space wrapped up in an egg minute,
Smaller than the smallest human thought,
Great pressure and heat in violence brute
In spaceless Space they fought and fought.

Then exploding, a countless suns blazing,
This Birth of births, in this event first,
The Word was born in this spectacle amazing,
And Space unravelled in the violent burst.

With the Word came Light, with Light the Stars,
With Stars, the Numbers; the endless infinite,
While Time, the great healer of scars
Flowed on impassively, through dark and light.

As distances grew and the force spewed out
Into the far reaches of the expanding cold,
Gravity, the warpness of Space, brought about
Clustering of the force-matter into mould.

Thus great galaxies formed in expanding Space,
With hot stars dancing in majestic grace,
Not yet came nights or bright summer days,
Nor planets with a terrestrial face.

As Time went by and hot Matter cooled,
Planets were born of sizes varied,
They got together and resources pooled,
Around the stars, life givers indeed.

That Consciousness in realms beyond,
In childish Play created the gods,
With tasks and duties and powers donned,
To create Life-breath by all odds.

In this suburb of the Universe wide,
Our humble earth got this chance,
To mother Life and provide
Sustenance and growth advance.

Thus Life was born in the seas,
For then water veiled the world,
In all directions and all degrees,
And the breath of life slowly unfurled.

Life leapt from wet sea to sand,
Sea life, amphibians, reptiles and man,
The creature who could proudly stand,
And think and build and speak and plan.

What future holds, how shall the end
In this wide speeding universe descend?
Does a death spectacular portend
Or a cold whimpering end to transcend?