THE INDIAN COMMENTATOR

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]

A POEM.


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'; conceiving, constructing, controlling. 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.
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[This poem is previously published in BOOKSIE ]