why you must never write bad poetry

every time this song plays
something made of glass
shatters

every time this girl sings
someone with slow hope
weeps

every time the church bells ring
someone's secret dreams
break

every time this poem is written
somewhere another poem
gets unwritten

for parag who asked for a poem on death

sixteen years have passed
and the girl has not changed
she still dreams of death
many deaths
many colored deaths
every smell
every corner of the death pit
where bodies wait eternally for the birds
every need of death
every touching tale of death
blood, axes, murders, suicides
she eats death
like newspaper stories over coffee
like bitches and their puppies
she eats death
she feels death
she needs death
she leads death
she sees death
she means death
she dreams of death
she dreams of death
she dreams up deaths
that never happen
she conjures death
she pulls it from a hat
she vomits it out
she follows it home
she kicks it in the shins
she lets it get on top
she writes for it
she cries for it
she slams the door in its face
she takes it by the arm
she nurses it
she feeds it honey
she smiles at death
caramel death
feline death
childish death
maddened death
crimson green blue death
she eats
she gorges
she’s full
she wants more

when your forehead slams the keyboard in sheer frustration

Ghgf.ok,seiofnxz

Y7u6 yyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyysw q

single lined notebook paper

if a child were asked
to draw
freedom
he would draw
your hair

iss khwab ko sach karke hi jaana re...

it seems you have to discover raghu dixit at the right time, with the right song, in the right order, in the right place.

ambar - raghu dixit

to my unborn nephew: some questions

how do i know you were to be a nephew?
did you feel it when you were uncreated?
did your mother wake that morning and just know?
did your father wonder if you'd have had his hair?
do your grandparents still want to buy you crayons?

do the children in the playgrounds feel the missing sound of your feet?
will the school books you'd own lie unbought in their shelves?
will no one else ever have your voice?
had the air made space for the shape of your body?
were you here or are you gone?

oh if nothing else,
answer me this:
am i allowed to
love you
like we love the living?

are you missing an oar?

the fish seller's skin always smells of fish
the fish seller uses washing soap
but his hands most of all smell of fish
the fish seller's wife's breasts
often smell of fish
his children's notebooks
never smell of fish
but their melancholic lunches
wrapped in newspaper
always always smell of fish

the fish seller is a quiet man
who learns his lessons from the sea bed
like how to carry the entire weight of the sea
and nurture life (fish smelling of course)
and yet flash silver
in the sun
and laugh out loud
when the tide comes in