Write chunks of white poetry on black night.
Your poetry must be of your narcissistic self

Morbidly touching the way an old tree waves
In your darkness, a schoolgirl laughs in sleep

Over yesterday’s homework in waving paper
Below a basement, between pictures of gods.

Poetry is confessional, some redness in face
Looking into crevices to let things not sleep.

A sleep alone will deliver up your confession
As you turn to your side to face a blank wall

Where  beginning , middle are not pictured
And the end turns out to be a breath, a lack.


Re-living history

We imagined history’s monks
Who had sailed here in a boat,

For a space for Buddha peace.
We see  stupa in smooth brick

And  is what might have been.
It has no Buddha ashes below.

Here are rooms where monks
Lived and bee-hummed sutras

With fingers on beads like bees.
That is  what might have been.

Only sea down hill would know
The living monastery that was.

(After visiting the Thotlakonda Buddhist monastery site near Vizag)