The Tweeting Haijin

Encased in concrete, with a dying orange above, and the silver turning grey below, the waves crash futilely against the old Portuguese fortress at Bandra. I suppose one might, on careful listening, hear steel versus steel again. Boats bob by those decayed ramparts, signs of of an eternal poverty dependent on the wealth of the sea; on the open sea the Bandra-Worli sea-link's lights shimmy: a half-finished proclamation of victory over nature. Above, the clouds thicken as if in impudent demonstration of whose writ truly runs. In the shanties of Bandra, in the towers of Worli, and in the middle-classness of Mahim, lights come on one by one - a dying day, a sleepless city. morning rush hour: the beggar sets up office where he sleeps Published in A Hundred Gourds

wandering with a hatful of sky the night is my only cloak and soon my shroud (Published in A Hundred Gourds )

Diwali lights . . . exposing the demons I still haven't slayed   / Sameer inner darkness hidden we light the façade   / max dusky hands count cartons of fairness cream in the factory   / raamesh the touch of cool lips on my fevered brow   / anitha once again that unfamiliar perfume on his shirt   / jayashree this summer night my dog sniffs for the moon   / raamesh the lean shadow cast by a paper wasp's hive   / samar fighting for queenship of hexagonal cells   / raamesh frosty starlight drapes the bare branches of an unknown tree   / samar through the grassland this kangaroo skips a beat   / jayashree we were together the last time the kurinji* bloomed   / anitha alive again I enjoy the hum of bees   / shrikaanth *the Kurinji blooms in profusion every twelve years A junicho composed by the members of IN haiku on facebook, started on 3rd November and finished on 26th May 20...

beyond the fort’s wall . . . rice harvesters' songs of long ago   / angelee coughing bouts punctuate the watchman's stroll   / paresh as the rain falls the cobra’s coils tighten around her eggs   / raamesh flocks of sparrows fly over a swamp   / sathi ripe fruit falling into the lake break the summer moon   / shabbir passing clouds usher in the malhar   / surya sitar notes caress his beloved’s flowing tresses   / gautam the door shuts quickly behind the smiling couple   / seshu I sense a shade of emerald in a bush by the stream   / neelam butterflies in a burst of colours   / cheryl over a meadow birds in flight split the sky   / surya the orchid leans into the new year   / kala An autumn junicho composed on 20th of October, 2013 at The Golconda Stones Haiku Meet. The participants were: Angelee Deodhar, Chandigarh – vs 1 Paresh Tiwari , Hyderabad – vs 2 Raamesh Gowri R...

above the moor not attached to anything a skylark sings   /basho on a greening trail the pale sun coats branches   / paresh eyes unblinking I wait for her window curtains to open   /raamesh now that he’s gone she orders his favourite meal   /bhavani from a cellar the scent of hops spreads to the warm patio   /angelee the halo around a vandalised Buddha   / geethanjali the circus lion’s yawn much bigger than its roar . . .   / sanjuktaa ready for the weary a dry bed of leaves   / brijesh on the road parijat blossoms mirror the night sky   / raamesh chowkidar’s torch flashes in the cemetery   / angelee jostling at the mall to grab last season’s stilettos   / lakshmi the horizon balances a winter moon   / kala * A spring junicho by the members of IN haiku at Haiku Utsav 2013 composed at the Symbiosis School for Liberal Arts, Pune, February 23rd, 2013 Joint sabaki – Rohini G...

The orchestra played Mahler's 4th Symphony. Timing is everything in Mahler, yet immeasurable, like the water in a leaking clepsydra. The audience sat entranced, glazed eyes peering. It was surreal, like a Homo habilis skull in the hands of Richard Leakey, glaring impassively from its eyeless sockets. Trying to tell, perhaps, of its timeless irrelevance. Irreverence even, as I come to think of it. A kind of gleeful mockery, saying that you too shall be mud in the course of time. Perhaps covered in an old cover of Rolling Stone and pissed on by passing hippopotami. You will disappear, like Basho's frog diving into its pool, and you might yet live forever, like Basho's frog diving into its pool. morning fog... the train whistles by broken bottles (Published in A Hundred Gourds 2:3 June 2013 and republished in  contemporary haibun  Volume 15 )