PRATHAP KAMATH Poems

Ekalavya my little fellow
the way you fire with that double barrel
rusting at the roots
reminds me of fake encounters
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A ruin in menopause
Souparnika has shrunk
heaving drier banks, where
pebbles like aborted fetuses lie
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Call a spade a spade,
call the old man a beggar;
he is fodder for poets.
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Like the wind whisking
the pocked ripe leaves off the ground
lets them fall again,
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I

Until yesterday, Taj Mahal had been
a mothball-scented dream
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The alarm is set to go at 5 in the dawn.
When it bangs like a monster
shivering with rage the first thought
in the oppressed sleep is about the sun
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Among the debris of throwaway time
lay a wooden box.
The painters held sway over the house,
and from their digging of unlit spaces
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At school he taught us chemistry.
In life he shot the wisdom of kill.
We called him Gunmaster.
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The Naming of Cats is a difficult matter,
It isn’t just one of your holiday games;
T. S. Eliot. “THE NAMING OF CATS”.
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She is another urn.
If not Grecian, Italian;
one of the world’s many,
yet the one for me.
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