Supplication
in cupped hands
rose petals
lotus leaves
on water
breeze
in return nothing
only buds of rose
Walking About In Ajmer*
this lathe grinds fine
circles
within balls of fire
head tonsured
patchwork
on foot walks
watery in afternoon sun
this seasons mangoes
outside the vodka shop
once
emperors walked barefoot
the ask the sun for a
son
boon granted
the corn is dull yellow
heavy
bent
dynasties outgrew
this gate
that once led
to
crossroads
of the moonlight
a huge red fort
and a hospital for the
birds
let me buy you
a mirror-work skirt
in atonement for
puppets
heavy on string
dew zoomed in
by the muezzin
while you grow roses
in your basil garden**
and my
money plant runs amok
*Ajmer, in Rajasthan, near Delhi has the shrine of Khawaja
Moinuddin Chishti (1138-1225 AD), the famous Sufi saint.
I Took Pictures
so it has come to this
hungry bulls with their balls cut
off
cows who cry because their udders are dry
this is a perishing
garbage hunt
without brasseries
automatons with nose rings
perky
like my granddaughters are
towards grass flowers
they say the next avatar
will be a horse out of the east
not as east as we are
where horses carry grooms
calculate dowry
and then chew their emaciated food
until death does us part
your river has walked away
pitiably waterless
melons
grow now
in those nooks and crannies
where you stole clothes
which
melons are sweeter
the dust bears witness
to sweetness
vagabonds
gambol with monkeys
and boats laugh
the immediate question is
do monkeys have enough to eat
or widows or the blind pilgrims
beggars from districts who thought
that monkeys are god
Rambling
I did not like the chanting today
the Scandinavians
body hair
has turned from golden to white
and someone from Leicester
Square
danced like an idiot spruced up
in religion and a saree with
hijaab
Silicon Valley with Stanford
kept repeatedly prostrating
to
emphasize
make concise and clear
and turned round and round
like a
dervish who is surely not song
the nose ring took it away
from the oxen
who also had
nose rings
before they discovered
you paid for the crop
I must have been demented
to titillate garlands that
can be stitched
together with fragrant flowers
in this there is no
orgasm
women cross-legged beneath marble
and vermillion that tells no
stories
where are you
they have opened a three sixty five day
store
and the policemen drove away the papaya
you will have to pare
pineapples in your old age
and granddaughters will promenade
all the
things we still plan to do
he disappointed
even while coming and going
lament
that fairies dont fly
why should tomorrow ever begin
to sing
of water and grass
monkey-nuts roasted in a life
that stares at
your
brilliant black eyes
towards the end
he cries
Barsana*
in the anemia of broken roads
the parrot call
is still
as sweet as the red insides
of guavas in the afternoon
when she surely
sleeps
beggars on steps that tumble
upon steps are not aggressive
and ripened corn through the view-finder
is parochial
so many
widows whose begging
is like selling sex
so many hunch-backed cows
so much bramble
that black camels eat
her doors are beaten silver
and she is small
with big
black eyes
that she will not blink
at this wind-swept light
merciless on the cornices
the monkeys travel long distances
to his conjecture
where beggars more aggressive
beg
and therefore get
food and money
excess flowers
and even
monkeys know
it is forbidden to climb
on cell phone towers
to your house or fort
or castle where you played
exuberant pre-menstrual games
to your wind-swept heights
I give you
your small black idol
I give you
your incredible eyes
* Barsana is a village about a hundred kilometers south east
of Delhi where Sri Radha (Lord Krishnas consort and prime devotee) is
said to have been born and spent her childhood.