Tuesday, December 1, 2009


You don't know me,

more than a stranger does.

Even strangers know that,

they don't know me.

But you have declared, in an instance that,

you know me, like I am nothing.

As if I am nothing more

than a wall notice you had read.

As if with a meter scale you can,

assess me like the stumps you had seen.

As if with a plain gaze you can see across,

like the rivers you had met.

As if with a stone you can throw me down,

like the fruits you had tasted.

You don't know me,

more than a stranger does.

Even the strangers know what epics are,

what trees, the ocean, or the stars are.

And you know me?

Did you know that I do not exist?

Or that I lied?


[This poem is previously published here]



The thing I drew was a female.
The thing was as if in a mirror,
someone standing in between-
me and my art: a female thing.
The thing was only a thing,
as it had no hands to clasp,
and no legs to part;
a torso: on which I can work-
my inmost sensuous spark.
I made her nothing short of-
an exhibition piece.
The pride I had was that of a 'creator';
But the pride died quickly,
and the corpse turned into lust.
The only thing I found in her as lack,
was the place for me to enter.
[This poem is previously published in BOOKSIE ]
Related Posts Plugin for WordPress, Blogger...