I remember the night my mother
was stung by a scorpion. Ten hours
of steady rain had driven him
to crawl beneath a sack of rice.
In my room, I talk
to my invisible guests:
they do not argue, but wait
Unsuitable for song as well as sense
the island flowers into slums
and skyscrapers, reflecting
precisely the growth of my mind.
There is a place to which I often go,
Not by planning to, but by a flow
Away from all existence, to a cold
Lucidity, whose will is uncontrolled.
I am standing for peace and non-violence.
Why world is fighting fighting
Why all people of world
Are not following Mahatma Gandhi
Her mother shed a tear or two but wasn't really
crying. It was the thing to do, so she did it
enjoying every moment. The bride laughed when I
sympathized, and said don't be silly.
To force the pace and never to be still
Is not the way of those who study birds
Or women. The best poets wait for words.
This normative hill
like all others
is transparently accessible,
Some people are not having manners,
this I am always observing,
For example other day I find
I am needing soap