Clouds in the valley...

    Hot summer’s day in Kanheri – By the time I have scaled the hills, The unforgiving sun Has desiccated me. Empty Frooti bottle in hand, I collapse Under the giant Buddha Blessing all who pilgrim here   Weekday emptiness - Except for a few langurs The world is in emptied isolation. And I nestle under The Buddha’s grace When a strange dream Of enlightenment commences:   I have been transported in time- An artist, a sculptor Chiselling out life From the basalt rocks Of the Deccan traps I have brought the same Buddha to life   Krishnagiri thrives With ascetic monks Overlooking the bustling Sopara That talks to the farthest western lands. Finally, the Buddha is alive Towering, sublime But the artist’s joy evades me.   Why do you grieve? He asks And I, both observer and actor speak – So many years of burnt-out pain But how long will you survive? How long will you shelter The islands of h...

  The winds of monsoon Have a different colour. At Raigarh People ran helter-skelter But we both knew Umbrellas are best left behind Sometimes In Renoir’s art   SO, we stood alone On a precipice Of the fecund fort Running amok with green; We stood - Staring at a waterfall Rising up In the convection blood Of the monsoon winds   Have you ever seen a reverse Waterfall? It will feel as if Even the mighty stream Of recalcitrant time Runs backwards Saying, here’s one more chance Before the rains end   Waters gush up And dissipate in inexistence You smile - ‘That the rains Return to the rains Sometimes, even the Earth’s gravity Is not strong enough’   But we both knew Deep within Eventually the weight of the nimbus clouds Would land it all back On terra firma - A juggling act of deceit That sometimes lone passers-by Feel there is hope Against hope That time can run backwards still   You can cover all the sentinels On these hills here But to see the rains running ...

  The Gorge’s morning peace Is disturbed: Splashing sounds Chugging dins, The intruder? A white paddle-wheeler, The leviathan’s giant wheels Ploughing upstream Like giant pectoral fins   We marvel quietly - Golden sunlight, Emerald greens The Nepean’s muddy blues unfold: A landscape dream of patience, In Hawkesbury sandstone A tiny stream carving itself Now 80 million old   But perhaps The paddlewheel chugs Not just in Gulumada’s bluish space - The landscape surreal No longer same A palimpsest appears In forgotten Dreaming days   There, a bunyip creeps Eying a meal On the other banks A diprotodon crawls Trees and climbers - fecund, Dripping In tropical steam In Gondwana’s rainforest halls   Liverwort tarps Plunging from the cliffs Giant ferns, and fungi On which, even larger lizards crawl A Titan’s Eden In its primordial form We, tiny visitors from a distant land Our spaceship wh...

  The following lines were written after a visit to John Tebbutt’s home and observatory in Windsor, nestled on the Hawkesbury (Dyarubbin) river. John Tebbutt was born in 1834, Windsor, and spent all his life here, fulfilling his love for the skies. He built – with his own hands – his observatory that stands even today, and from therein, discovered comets and cosmic glitters, for which he won recognition around the world. Tebbutt discovered comets, most notably, the comet of 1861 now known as Tebbutt’s comet besides publishing over 350 articles worldwide based on his astronomical observations at a time when Australia was considered a far-off colony. A quiet achiever, Tebbutt refused to move out of Windsor, despite his success, and offered opportunities including the position of government astronomer for New South Wales. His house – and observatory – stands even today, while his instruments have been housed in the nearby Hawkesbury Musuem. In recognition of his work, John Tebbutt...

  HIKIKOMORI -  Japanese term for extreme social withdrawal, characterized by prolonged isolation within the home, often for months.   The viewer Sees the universe Yet is trapped In his sea of emptiness - In the corner room he calls home   Hikikomori - Isolation in a throbbing world Where there is nothing Beneath the squeaky surface No soul to speak to   You can go out To the farthest corners Of this world Yet will meet Only your own mirage   The room may expand To engulf the world But you remain Alone still Empty handed   Isolated in A busy world Aloof in the frenzy Of neon lights When inside, its all dark   Come, peek inside You never know What you will find – A pulsing star? An event horizon?   The kind that comes When you outgrow galaxies? To travel the farthest skies Only to find yourself back In the corner room called home…   5th December 2025 ...

  They say, Empty pots Show a lazy gardener   I stare At too much emptiness Thank you, winter   But then, I am spoilt For choices – Where do I start   Lavender, koleos Basil, rosemary Or just the hardy succulents   Or get something Useful, at least Chillies, habanero chillies!   I look again At the empty pots Too many of them   And realise They are not Pots of emptiness   They are beholders Of choice, free will To shape as you want   Empty pots Making you feel like God The universe to mould   Each vase will swirl Like galaxies A biosphere of life   Or better still Chose emptiness itself No need for fulfilment   Nihilism, To contain the cosmos Dissolve in the emptiness   Just like an empty atom Or a stellar system My orbits of devoid spring   And I am left wondering At the gold of dusk What is it that matters? ...

As I look at my tiny oasis of jade - my backyard garden, I can see a stream of visitors that come and go with the flowing seasons. This time, I wanted to write about the noisy miner, a small native bird belonging to the honeyeater family, more reminiscent of the myna or starlings that are so common back home. The miner, justifying its name, becomes pretty noisy and territorial in nesting season, attacking every visitor.   With this theme, I composed, not one but two poems over back-to-back days, trying to experiment with style and depth. The theme remains the same, that of my learning from the tiny bird. However, the first is more rhythmic, focusing on the play of syllables and rhymes, creating almost a ballad-style poem, with quatrains and a sing-song consistently rhythmic ABCB pattern. In contrast, with the second one, I worked on a blank verse: with unyoking of the need for meters and rhythms, I felt freer to focus on the words and with it a bit of depth. No more rhythm, ju...