Spring Mushrooms


       100 poems/52 weeks challenge’ 2018

jai ma

It is bloom
and in my dreams,
I have started appearing in a village
on the mountains.

I have laid down my embellishments
and picked up my poetry,
and remorseless, I wander
in pettiness and small ideas
of how you gave me your hand,
in the silk of
damp valleys and noodle aromas.

There was a singing in your hands
and on the railroads
there was love in your teeth
of noon-light
‘what a benign monster’
I laughed and let you take me away.

It was a narrative of a homegrown potted plant
and closed rooms with translucent windows
in a wild forest of sun
and still I romped about
in whatever boy-bike empire
you called your home.

You had biting eyes when I made the window blind
and I waited for you
in mad laughter
of a free playschool of heart
with no suitcases of mind.

Of all signals chopped like an onion
and all the people crying in the world
that I have eloped
in my transgressions,
but still I rise
in whimsicality.

वो शौक है रंग बदलता है मैं रंगरूप का सौदाई

Author Notes: My heart is a genius of utopia. 




       100 poems/52 weeks challenge’ 2018

Related image

Chaos by the artist, Elliana Esquivel.

Chaos of mind,
I sit with you at a chess table
and you gamble like a pirate king.

The negotiations are let out,
and it is a dance of seduction
of an exoticized Spain
where bleeding roses are championed
because they fight against the brutality of white noise.

But I have to sleep
and the mattress seduces no allegory,
for my reader who traverse these words
and so I wake,
allowing you to condense my peace,
all in the name of poetry.

Chaos of my mind,
lend me demons of an emotional excess
that may sprout into a poem
of exorcism rites.

Author Notes: This one is to refer Wordsworth, with my own finishes.



       100 poems/52 weeks challenge’ 2018

           Faeries by a rocky stream by Francis Danby

“In poetry,
I learn honesty.”

There is a certain group of unknown creatures
that sit fishing
over my heart,
like faeries.

These are my mind.

I wheel out my supermarket trolley
and ask them
‘what are we feeling today?’
and when empty,
They dive inside and appear in the nerves of my forehead.

My mother says
‘it is because you are not drinking enough water’
and it must be true
for the pond where they fish
has terrors inside
and we must not let it dry up.


Sea Horses


100 poems/52 weeks challenge’ 2018

The Rising Tide by Jason deCaires Taylor

Prompt: “The last river on earth writes a poem. What does it say?”

I met a man once,
after my mother snuck me out
and lapsed across time and space
to become a dark space
of cloudless sky.

He told me
there was a river inside his head
‘If you could talk to her?’
and so I ate his mind
like those before him,
their memories my bedrock
I, an odyssey.

The sky is purple through his eyes today
and an another smell his child’s crayons
I tell them to sleep,
I stir them like honey in warm water
but they come up like adolescent rocks
trembling across the pond
as if thrown away by teenagers.

I tell them to sleep,
the world falls in my lap like freshly-washed clothes
and it is my last job
to open a cellar of salt
and fold them under its whirlpool.

The last man,
buoyant by all the salt of the sea
that sits like stones under eyelashes,
stirs for the last time
and asks me of ‘what of your end?’
and I fish some babble
and wave
‘Oh, but the end is me.’

            Author Notes: Yes, I can make puns.

In the sculptures, the head of the horses are replaced by oil pumps to critique pollution. I found this picture after I wrote the poem and I find it delightful that it is almost a soulmate to it. The horses here, refer to the horses of apocalypse in Christian mythology and are the central theme of poem as well.








100 poems/52 weeks challenge’ 2018


I had intuition around things.
My hands would fall recklessly around me
And they knew of
The world that touched them
And clucked like
Scattered mothballs.

At a pool table,
I knew my game
And when I thought I was writing to you,
I had already written my hundred poems
Long before this page.

Where is this place?
Where the things have already happened

One morning though,
I did not know why there was a heavy fog
My windows all
In depth
Of improbability—
I cried
And could not contain me so,
From hallucinating a reality which cannot be predicted
Because it simply
Does not exist.




100 poems/52 weeks challenge’ 2018


“La Pausa” by Kelly Borsheim

For many days,
I sat upon the swing of my mind
and played with word-games
till my mouth was full.

I told people
I am gentle,
You have to chew my ambition
and twirl me a little bit to–
But wait.
I am suffering an interruption.
A rather vivid eruption,
of a heart that was supposed to stay quiet
throughout the course of this poem.

There is a figure that stands in the room
and slips under my eyelids every-time I sleep
And every morning when I wake up,
I am always afraid
I am still dreaming
and then I go out and really see You,
the figure,
playing word-games
as if reminiscing the cloud that was last night.

I am afraid.

I am pleased.

Author Notes: As a surreal poet, form is my greatest play. But sometimes
my heart does not obey me and that is potent. Unifying.





100 poems/52 weeks challenge’ 2018



I caged a bird;
It felt like my heart.

But even more so, it felt like my mind.

The bird
Chameleon shade,
A peculiar athlete of drowning and flying
I said, “Hush!”
And it began to sleep.

It was long tired
In mixing colours with light,
For no sinners roamed the earth anymore
And all wore white.

It was long tired
In mixing colours with night,
For no saints roamed the earth anymore
And all wore fright.

So I let it sleep underwater:
I dreamt of simple things,
Like brown huts, a river slow, and jagged birds
I dreamt of simple things,
Like people who mean their words
But also their feelings.


Author Notes: If my rhyme forces you to sing, crawl like a little baby and the sensibilities will be restored again. 




Ostrich eggs


100 poems in 52 weeks poetry challenge


Ostrich egg: Blue bird on a cherry blossom


This is not a poem
This is a moon journey
to return to a CPU heartbeat
of my rainy day poetry,
with words that I pour in your drink,
popping in your mouth like a tongue-cracker candy.

The trees move in shadows
and I am standing under a small grasshopper
over the ceiling
when I fall into me
and soften you all out.

You all,
give a caress soft against my cheek
but it came too late,
but it came too blind,
I cannot feel it
I have eaten me alive,
in ecstasy
of a wild child with her head inside a burrow.


Author Notes: This was an ode to my good old nostalgia. Also, I am referring to my ‘Little Wild child’ poem. Do check it out!