Creative Imprisonment

If I write a poem of desire
There is moral policing
Search warrant for the source.
If I write a poem of renunciation
There are prescriptions for aphrodisiac.
Some prisons have eyes in every wall.
Ears in every window.
Tongues in the floor that wag with out a bone.
Alphabet does not block the flood gates.
There is a word for every form of harassment.
This is a prison that has abundant air inside.
I breathe air that has no color.
No boundaries.


Those corridors of my mind
Remain tightly shut
As I open the doors of
various rooms
Explorer in my own house
Fear had different hues
Darkness was a solace from hurting light
The floor was always a reality
At times springing a surprised flower
Like laughter that was more contagious
than a yawn
Sky was often visible
Sometimes like a childhood I forgot
At times desperate for mother’s lap
A troubled conscience like a father
lost with out a map.
Not knowing who was guilty nor the
definition of crime.
A sister I almost lost on a giant wheel
A God stayed immovable like
a book full of knowledge, waiting to be read.
Those corridors of my mind may open one of these
days , like a bird who breaks her cage
And sets a trail of flames that are purely hot..


What is more real
that which happens
knowing that you will see
Or that which happens
despite knowing
you may never see
What is more blind
the way I saw all your
assaults as frantic efforts
to hear me cry out your name
or the way you did not
see all my escapes
as frantic efforts to stop
a natural force
What is more blind
Love or hate?
What ties you forever?
Love or hate?
I untied the knot; I was free when I loved
I have little experience with getting over hatred

Small wonder

I did not fall in love I was rising from underground
I had nothing left to lose , then I found myself
It was not because you were the last man on earth
It was because you were the first man who understood more than my kith and kin
Best things about me was unsaid, I realized it as you strained to hear the silence
We had mirror neurons in common ,synapse was like fission
You drop your eyes when you know you are wrong , I do that when I am shy
I confess, it was scary to be understood …devastating to be misunderstood
We both were attracted to pain , small wonder we are not together.
Does it matter to you at all ?


The accused collects it
to hide his guilt
The innocent collects it
to prove her innocence
Obviously they don’t tally
If the crime scene is her body
It cannot be wrapped with
yellow sticky tapes
Witness cannot get in
Without scratching or grease.
Any ways you can always
lie back and think of England
or India.If there is no bread you can eat cake, revolutions happen like that .In all countries nice women are
asked to keep secrets,lesser women scream,some others write poetry
and tear the paper.


“To  get irritated , is to lose our way in life – Haruki Murakami in Wild sheep chase”

I won’t be another number

In your case file

OP number  or IP number

Lucky or unlucky number

Your favorite number on FM Radio

Your correct number of shoe size

An old telephone number

sadly out of date with less

number of digits

Don’t add  me to your feathers

in the caps or pillows  or

Minus me from your accounts

That do not tally

Don’t count the number

of hours I made you wait

Make it years or lives

Does it matter ?

Love does not keep accounts

I don’t count

I don’t really count…………….


Whatever I mastered with great effort

I threw away without a second thought

How ever much they praised me

I continued to ask ,

is this really what I want ?

Now I no longer ask this ,

I merely justify  why I do what I do ….

Is this monotony a crisis ?

A deep fear of the unknown…

Familiar with the comfort of solitude.






That grape I never got , yet knew was sweet & never sour

The flower that bloomed in my heart spreading fragrance

A song I heard in a dream , but haunted me while awake

A memory that I try so hard to forget but remains

forever  in consciousness

Those moments I want to hold on to , but they speed away

However much I fill , it empties reflecting my hollow self

It is that small earthen lamp burning silently in front of God…..

By K.H.Srinivasa 

Translation by me , he is my father and this is from his collection ‘Zero outside and Zero inside ‘ He suffered a massive heart attack on 24th February 2017( 3 days ago) being a doctor I was able to see to it  that he was helped with in one hour of the attack , a stent was put in the anterior descending branch of left coronary artery by an excellent cardiologist.  Dad loves life and I have inherited it , it was Mahashivratri. A day of worship to Lord Shiva who conquers death …. I am happy my father is alive and with me….


That emotion can always be reversed ,

He mocked at her

He: You are trying to find a word

That cannot be reversed

To describe a feeling

that is notoriously reversible

Palindrome for love?

Grow up…

Move on….

Ageless love?

She: Of course, Abelard and Heloise.

Heloise actually said

“Let me be your whore”

and he married her….


He: They lived in letters

They loved in letters

Was that love or fantasy?


Their tombs were united

By Miss Bonaparte much later

Professor Higgins is real.

Ego is evidence.


She was furiously indignant

Not every man is

Professor Higgins of Pygmalion..

Bernard Shaw was merely writing a play

It is far from real.

The argument progressed


She: Penelope turned down 108 suitors

Till Odysseus  returned

He: Homer was blind

Another round of applause………