Towering chimneys of big factories
raping the sky under the Delhi moon
with mothers fathers sons and daughters
in the pavement
whispering away the death of night
shivering under the wind blanket

there she is under the subway
with the weight of love inside her belly
writing on the wall a poetry:
“I lost my virginity to this world
now I see this polluted world
through my hymen”

Me and My Friend Across this Nation

Me and my friends
we gonna travel across this nation
through its railway tracks
that lead to Godhra, to kashmir,
to Kanya Kumari,
to all the temples of gods.
we gonna go in beat way
sipping rum and smoking grass
with sweat and blood fighting for seats
with rucksacks full of untold stories.

If they ask what are we seeking for
"we are seeking the paper where the Indian Constitution exists
to write our parts as they have missed out us
we are seeking a community which doesn't want to stay free
we are seeking the poetry of travelling
and the mystery of one India
we are seeking the costliest death in the country."

we gonna walk across this nation
to see the children of this nation
sing national anthem.
we sang the anthem till class five
till then our mouths were shut by red flags and stars
now our mouths are again locked by AFSPA
that is why poetry is our soul.
what else we can dream of when our voices died
in the murmurs of corrupt leaders under their tables
what else we can cry for
when crying becomes breathing

we will sing in every Indian universities
we will stay ugly and dirty in every city
we will exchange arrows of love and hatred
between cities and our poetry.
In the streets
we gonna sing with the beggars;
“I am a widow
my child is sick
I am a widow
my husband is sick
Saheb! My sister is in pain
give us a lift
or give me auto fare to hospital
Saheb! I am very hungry
Sir! I am very hungry
feed me some food
give me something
kuch to de-de Saheb!”

we will run across the fields of Kerala with the farmers
chasing the dragonflies and singing ;
"aadhi ellallo andham ellallo
ula kaalam poy aa yugathil
theyya rayyam theyya rayyam taka
theyyaram theyyaram theyya rayyam "

we will meet my Mallu friend who lost his virginity
while sliding down from a tall and slim coconut tree
Oh we must name the coconut tree 'Virginometer';
a machine that checks male virginity.
We will climb one by one to check our status
we will call out the priests, the monks too.

We will sit in coffee house of Kolkotta
listening to Ranbindra Sangeet,
Smoking bidi like the Hungryalist Poets
but never we will write like Malay Roy Choudhary.
we dont want to be jailed for poetry
all we want is to meet India
in the west in the east
in the north in the south.

We gonna jump naked into Triveni Sangum
with Naga Sadhus stoned with lord Shiva's Grass.
we gonna love India till it slaps again
and throw us back into Imphal River

we gonna walk into the houses of the 10,000 villagers
who fled after Salwa Judum.
we gonna see “Can poverty survive in the houses of emptiness?
Or are there poetry budding out of the haunting huts?”

With the immigrant fish sellers from Bangladesh
we gonna live in slums where evening scenes often look like
colourful picture in moral science books
with children and stray dogs playing,
with folks squatting by the hand pumps,
with women in blouse washing the dirty of this nation
at Dhobi Ghats.

We are going to carve our poetry with blood
on the frozen surface of Dal Lake
So when the first ray of summer sun arrives
it evaporates the phrase like "Operation Blue Bird" in air
like a bird breaking free out of cage
and flying around the world
to shit upon the statue of Liberty

u luk mine that way

U look mine that way
tearing the strap of your slipper
on the bridge yesterday evening

U look mine
when you kicked at me
in front of the embassy
where i sold myself like the rest
to be on a plane
to break the chain

U look mine that way
when you left me
when you walked away
like an alcoholic husband
who left his wife crying helplessly
so you wife me
so i pluck my hair
seeing you fading
among the foreign bodies

U look mine that way
when you play with me
walking slowly behind me
to prove i am not concerned
about you

U look mine that way
when you say stop playing music
when you cry for small things
when you left me alone stranded
in the middle of nowhere
with twenty rupees in my pocket

U look mine in every way

Jobless Poem

Here, no one gets job
no one gets to hope for hope.
From the universities they become MA and BA
and come here to serve like a farmer on May day
but here no one is a farmer
everyone wants to be a snake charmer

bureaucrats, they put the taxes in their asshole
and the old men in tea hotels, they scold.
some become high with LSD
some sell lands to become inspectors doped with SP
and the youngsters in bike and BMX doing stunts
in youtube and their mothers working in the sun

some burn their degree certifcates to light their joints
some snatched mobile phones and wallets at gun point
they call themselves police who take oaths under the flag
at nights they even snatch phaneks
some become lucky if they are pleased by MLAs
like the criminals in America pleased by CIA
(Criminals In America)

some become the masked rickshaw pullers
some become the masked killers
hired by the government, hired by the hiding men
some become plain man
who face punch from all directions
at home they beat up wives out of frustration

some open alcohol vendors
with PhD degree in literature
there is nothing wrong in it
but the fact is he doesn't want it
here no one gets job
every thing becomes flop

an example of trying to be self sustainable??
O My whole wide world! look at them, read their fables!
they are self sufficient, they need no technologies, electricity.
that's why the aluminium wires are being stolen unlike in cities
that's why the police takes tax for the candles from Moreh
that's why there were people who hid away in Sylhet
to learn the art of guerilla warfare
but their blood, this country and that country shared

some run NGOs for GUN and HIV victims
some run rehabs to get the Junkies clean
some write poetry inspired by Tagore
some paint scenaries making art whore
some live in utopia when they are dying with Malaria
some talk to change the world after they see America
Some call bandh because a football was crushed by a truck on highway 39
Some do theatres to please the bosses as if their homes are fine
Some teach in hill schools by hiring someone to hold the chalks
as they are allergic to hills since the time of their olf folks
some live in jail running some gangs thru cellphone
some kill to heal their past wounds and to cut the bones

Some are jobless
Some are homeless
Some are hopeless
Some are countryless

Dancing in the streets

(Inspired By Ojha Amubi)

This night is a good day to begin
O My Generation
Come out in the streets
Lets dance with the dreaming trees
Autumn is over even in poetry
It is a night to bring a dawn of spring

If death arrives again, so what
we have had it enough
we will make fire out of it
for the dark souls
who know only how to complaint and cry

O My generation
Come out in the streets
Lets dance with the dreaming trees
the movement of your body must be like wave.
the softness of a feather
you must carry in your movement
Haven't you heard of wave that shake Mother earth?
Haven't you heard of softness that melt bullet into cotton?
Haven't you heard of movements that bring down big nations?

What have you not done in these streets?
You have burnt yourselves,
you have been hit by tear gas shells,
you have been beaten with butts of gun
you have been naked when this world is a lie and masked
All you have not done is to dance
Come on my generation
Lets dance in the streets
listen to the croaking frogs
they are calling you out not the rain
look at the rocks in the rivers
they have made their postures

And remember,
"A great dancer is a great fighter
in this land"

death of a winter

last night
winter committed suicide
with a fork that was dipped in pork fat
as it had no solution
to stop the arrival of summer
so it left my wooolen sweater
hanging cold on the nail

Summer on its way
the dumb sky raining with its roar
who can stop it who can stop it
not you not me
but Winter will come again
without you and me

the fire we desire

It came as i was plucking mint in kitchen
with my hands bearing the hotness of red chilli
with an empty cup of tea singing loneliness
with the grinder grinding coffee
with my mind saying to me 
it is different from Neruda's
"I am not copying him
I am not imitating him
it is as true as the sun to my heart"

Poetry they came naked
it is you making them wear fanek
it is you coloring them red or black
Revolutionary, they salute to the evening sky
when their chief read out poetry
but they call it manifesto
Teachers, they teach poetry in classroom
at back home poetry like a broom
with it they sweep the room
or fan away their sweat after sex
Some sees poetry as meat loaf
that serves in silver plate with silver spoon
like it is for the best mankind on earth

Some see it as movements of past
that froze along with blood in streets
under the boots of human insanity
Some see it like rain
that is seasonal like mensturation
Poetry to someone is just a word
that fights the world in white pages
but in reality he she can never fight
dont we call it a lie?

Poetry they came naked
knocking at the doors of your heart
some fake it tapping their feets
following the rhythm of gunshots and bombings
but in a land like mine
it came as a spade to till the fields
nakedness of poetry died long ago
as it came with our desire to defy
with our desire to survive
with our desire for another renaissance
we can't wait for poetry to knock our doors
we must sow poetry in the ashes
of our death brothers and sisters

whom to blame?

when the barrels of the guns
you can not block or shut
when revolution becomes a way of earning
when freedom is a great joke
when you are as helpless as flowers
with what all you see and smell
the bastards they rape a mother
 and a daughter
and there corpses like winter dew
in the yellow mustard field.

Another young girl
strangled to death in the field
the field that is still wet with blood
that drips from phrase like 'counter insurgency'
that hand was a lover's hand
who was also a father's hand
without her knowledge.

And here comes a hero
who trade children from the land of corruption
who are abandoned from education
and he offered them molestation
sending twenty of them away in chennai

whom to blame for such shame, Heroes, you bastard?

Third class citizen

I don't need to prove
I am a third class citizen
of this country
with no self respect
So i close my eyes
and fill the passport form
which says:
"I have not lost, surrendered
or been deprived of citizenship of India"

no country will accept me
without the tag "Third Class Citizen"
As if this planet belongs to their father
Mr. John
Your Imgination died with you
except in the billboard chart 
I must stop singing my songs
I must remain quiet like many others
following the leaders
who throw lies at me
who teach me i am as small as an ant

I am a third class citizen of this great country

Tribal Art

It was a rainy day
five of them stood at the foothill
waving their hands at us.
they wanted to see our huts in the hills
but couldn't climb the hills
so we carried them on our backs
their bodies were as soft as broiler chicken
unlike ours which were seasoned
like woods underneath the water
in the shallow river

They called us adivasis
they clicked our photographs.
For the first time my mother smiled
after the dead of my old man
who died of fever, they called it malaria.
they asked us to imitate like hunters
in our costumes
so we did with spears and swords
wearing skulls

we served them pork
one of them refused to eat
Others insisted him
saying "it is a pork chop"
so he ate like a dog (laugh)
They left the hill with measles.
such week souls they were
with their eyes glittering
with everything we did

"their eyes so big
ours so slanted
Our noses so flat
theirs so pointed"

Once we came to Delhi
To submit our memorandum
that took us several years
to prepare as we were not aware
of anything that can benefit us from Delhi
but never we gained anything.

Mr. Prime Minister was too kind
Instead he hired a bus for us
and the driver thought
we will be interested in seeing certain thing
in the crowded city
so he took us to some shops
which advertised phrase like "Tribal Art"
with paintings, pictures, costumes,etc

the pictures were shining like gold;
well polished and well framed with hands of god
but they were about us
who they called Adivasi
they were the pictures
clicked by those men who refused to eat the pork
cooked in our mud pot.
the paintings reflected every movement
of our lives with the brush strokes

Oh! Art is a wonderful thing
We had never seen or heard of Lotus Temple
but our folklores and stories have existed,
echoed through out the big big cities
Oh Art is a wonderful thing

I wanted to buy one of the paintings
but could not communicate with the seller
(With my movements i could not communicate)
even if i bought one
it would have broken into pieces
on my way back home
as you see roads are still not there
still it is the same fields  and hills
that my old man shooed away the jackals
but i must tell you
Art is a wonderful thing
it doesn't know any language
it doesn't care where it belongs
it sells unlike our worries of life