Poetry based upon actual experiences, not one thought up in the intellectual aridness of a pseudo-thinker. Words as they mean in the specific context of recollected thought or image , not meaning several things at a time but that which re-creates an aura or a haze of an earlier experience
The trouble with these old, gnarled trees Still standing upright in the earth and air Is that they want to remain homes To the many homeless evening-birds Which incessantly chatter to slum kids Pouring out of their improvised shanties With tin roofs glistening in the sun Through old cycle tires and tarpaulin tatters Kept defensively in place against the wind By a motley collection of gray stones. They do not realize even in their death That our gardener’s three-stone stove Is waiting impatiently for their dry logs To arrive in its enormous, crackling fire.
On the Babughat the Ganges wore A splendid necklace studded with images Of inverted candle lights under the bridge The flickering flame of the lantern in the boat Refused to dance to the windâ€™s death-tune Near the jetty stood a dark monstrosity Brooding over unillumined loneliness Its cavernous stomach ached with The darkest secrets of the high seas .
It is this luminosity, my dear, Of the gilded leaves in the sun The magic eye promptly catches A silver flicker, a yellow transience. A palliative to the chemical pain In variously knotted entrails and The reddish tinge in eye-whites.
Things remained unsaid Beauty had cried in torrents Of words bereft of thought Till the blazing March sun Beat history's scraggly stones A midsummer celebration Ensued with images galore Beauty returned from the hills.