A poem at the centre of the collection,
Is missing, as you can gather.
To speak truly, its absence, equally
In the grilled window overhead
Before ringing the bell
I see your face.
It is only love, nothing else.
To have designs on another
The old Greek was right,
Platonic love is the best.
Our distances are intimate,
We grow vast in our silences.
In freedom we have blossomed,
Not having thwarted one another.
The path is six hundred years old.
On the way you will see peacocks
And, if you are lucky, some deer.
He lies near the stinking pond
filled with guts and blood;
all around him-devastation and death.
I read the love poems of others
With quiet disgust-
The unending obsession with sex,
The sad broken lives
The see-saw of our relationship tires me.
But neither of us seems to be able to get off.
We have nothing in common
And that's what keeps us together.
Homage to Shiva-Shakti
The first and greatest of lovers,
Whose love bears the burden of cosmic mysteries;
Then obeisance to Ganesha, Lord of the masses,