Contempt

featured in the poetry forum November 8, 2017  :: 0 comments

An homage to John Ashbery

When I mark the two edges
of a contempt
with a sharp pencil
naivete interrupts.
It bestrides on the two edges
and pushes them away.
‘I just walk around
Into the dusk-charged air.’
Vividly smell my own perspiration –
the monster inside me
replicates itself in an endless variation.
Is contempt a chess-board?
A driveway?
Amorphism?
“…I cannot explain the action of leveling
why it should all boil down to one
uniform substance, a magma of interiors.”

editors note:

A word impossible to define for those who are above it. – mh clay

Fatigue

featured in the poetry forum September 11, 2017  :: 0 comments

Every day my gazes break on her smiles. In the hot summer afternoon I sit on the pavement of her silence. Thrashing dust buses, cars and all other vehicles pass with so many words but they never get down before me; in this scorching heat I sit beside the street dog of my desire who pants with drooping tongue. I visit to meet the “idols of the theatre” in the city where Francis Bacon lives, though dust and heat on the roads make me tired.

editors note:

Too hot for desire, just keep panting – wait for sunset. – mh clay

The Dark Lines

featured in the poetry forum July 6, 2017  :: 0 comments

There are
many dark lines.

Only a few of them
are vertical

on the surface
of my life.

Others form
different angles.

The thicker ones
are embedded firmly

and pierce
through the bottom.

editors note:

Thick or thin, try not to step over. – mh clay

Swelling of Lies in His Throat

featured in the poetry forum April 25, 2017  :: 0 comments

Gradually
I have become accustomed
to the biting
of my unfaithful dog.
Every time
his uneasy canines
get locked
into the bloodless flesh
of my thigh,
I shout in pain
until my neck
gets as thin
as truth.

When my flesh is torn apart
and the dog is free,
he develops a huge swelling
of lies
in his throat.

editors note:

No truth? No training! – mh clay

Birthday is an indirect object connected with an improper preposition

featured in the poetry forum February 16, 2017  :: 0 comments

after the birthday bash
i am tired

of loyalty –
the dry stone of a fruit

the collar of my shirt
is not an enough opening

for pumping out
the flies of myself

in my drawing room
the years cross the edge of my table

and sit
on the window-sill

outside all the compound eyes
gather in the front lawn

and scuffle like people
in the queues before ATMs

the mob is pushing me
into the enormous nucleus

of a Mrs. Malaprop’s cortex cell

editors note:

And no word is the right word for how we feel. – mh clay

Clamor

featured in the poetry forum November 19, 2016  :: 0 comments

clamor
from a neighborhood
famished
cracked
measure d on the Richter scale
three village folks we re sip
ping tea
in uncle tom’s cabin
the clamor was inter rupted
some) where
in the north bengal tea gardens:
hunger is a prisoner’s out (fit
in coma

the face value of the disaster:
‘self is seen
not as a person al essence
rather as an aesthetic and ethical object
to be create d and cultivate d’

editors note:

Sipping tea; becoming you, becoming me. – mh clay

Premonition

featured in the poetry forum September 2, 2016  :: 0 comments

Indian child development minister is thinking that she
must extend the maternity leave for working women.

Afternoon naps improve my health,
I don’t care how we spend our baby moon at Miami.

The baby in the perambulator smiles at me.
Sex is hushed up. Let’s talk about love, buddies.

She wore a plunging black gown for her music promo.
She sang for raising her baby twins after divorce.

Americans name their babies after guns –
‘a nightmare on elm street.’ After the party

she pretends all is over – a ‘million dollar baby;’
though I have an infighting against mediocrity.

Pro-industry GDP doesn’t impress voters.
A gross environmental product will breast-feed them.

editors note:

For all us babies, the future is one big teat. – mh clay

What Does A Vertical Line Form

featured in the poetry forum April 29, 2016  :: 0 comments

the morning
is snow white,
only snow.
grass blades
are as dead
as her skin,
converge at the corner
of the nearest road;
other roads
have merged
with the dense forest.
measure me
from the nearest road.
i know,
the distance
remains in the vertex

below snow.

editors note:

The shortest distance between two points is too cold. – mh clay

Journey

featured in the poetry forum January 29, 2016  :: 0 comments

Ce ne fait rien
if we step forward

life is a narrow
straight line

those who look back
fall down

with a bang
into a deep, dark ditch

let’s go
we need not make the road wider

you know ‘the world as will and idea‘
don’t be afraid

of a polyphonic silence
the high street is not ours

editors note:

Yup, it’s the journey. What matters is movement; the end is unknown. – mh clay

The Scaffold

featured in the poetry forum November 5, 2015  :: 0 comments

The scaffold screwed on
The stony wall of memory
Is strong enough.
Faces on the shelves
Cry
And laugh
Like mad men
Who often make me forget
Light
And darkness,
Steel,
The plants in my garden
Or, even
My pet dog,
Waiting for me,
Down.
He forgives my all tortures
But forgets nothing.
Grueling climbing
On the scaffold,
Reeks of lubricant.
The steel pipes creak
Even far away.
In my pocket
The smart phone vibrates
Occasionally
But I never shove my hand
Into it.
The garbage men
Move to and fro
On the street
Like ants.
They are burning
With the summer’s sun
On the dry paper
Of work.
I observe from the top
How all the streets crowd
Around the paper.

editors note:

Memory or imagination; both look the same on paper. – mh clay