PORTRAIT OF THE POET AS AN OLD CLICHE

Squatting,

(under the huge

tree with red,

yellow leaves,

half-bent, half

falling into

green, brown waters

of the still,

dirty lake

turning orange,

red, gold, silver,

black under

the purple, violet, blue,

turquoise sky

in the red, orange,

brown setting sun,

half drowned in

the silver, gold,

white smokey

clouds)

the poet in the

long, black,

patched old

felt overcoat

and broken,

brown boots

holding

a long, thin, dry

reed

was a poem

himself.

© Jatin Gandhi, 2005

Meditation

I love your silence
My lord
I'd love it more if
it weren't
choreographed.

(C) Jatin Gandhi, 2006

Epitaph

They
who wrote my
Epitaph
didn’t know
I was a
writer too.

(C) Jatin Gandhi, August 8, 2001

Story teller

Meet him,

man who hates other men,

but don’t talk to him.

And don’t look him in the eye

or he’ll hate you too.

He’s a story-teller

who writes of men and women,

children, pigeons and places.

And kittens.

He writes what men talk

watches them when they talk

and listens carefully

sometimes with his eyes closed.

He loves to talk.

But don’t talk to him

just listen

Or he wont tell you his story.

(C) Jatin Gandhi, 1999

Unedited on October 29

Maria, have you heard of a man

with four names?

I know of words with more synonyms

Than four. Five. Six. Seven.

But not names.

And not people with so many names.

I know a man who named his dog

VIBGYOR.

He said was a

Seven-in-one name

Violet.
Indigo.
Blue.
Green.
Yellow.
Orange.
Red.

Its just three colours but.

And then it's one name

Vibgyor

I have heard of violet flowers

And indigo scarves,

Of blue bicycles, green snakes,

Yellow cars,

Oranges hair and red books.

I have seen colours

And met people.

But I haven’t met

A man with four names

All names that mean

The same.




© Jatin Gandhi, 1999.

The rum drinker

The rum drinker

If
he jumped from
the ledge tonight
and died,
will you bandage
his neck first
or collect pieces of
his flesh from
between the cracks
in the road?
Will you cover his
body with leaves
and let children discover
him in play
or would you rather
drink up his rum
before they knew?

For him
to have died leaving
his rum unfinished
was good for us.
But think of him
to kill himself
-- could it mean
death meant more to
him than rum
when he died?

© Jatin Gandhi, 2004

Untitled

There were no vulture cries at
the electric crematorium
only cell phone beeps

vultures don’t come here
anymore
they migrated to bigger cities

too much multiplication
but not enough dead
our city ranks too low
on the misery index

they bury the dead or
burn them
not cosmopolitan enough

men eat all the dead pigs
or sell them
other animals die only in custody

there isn’t enough food for vultures here
they migrated to bigger cities
where bigger vultures
repeat success


© Jatin GandhiFebruary 1998

WAR

WAR

Wet desert sands
And the mirage
In the city
Four walled
Oceans
Of concrete and
Overheated flash bulbs
Under the warm sun.
Screens and curtains
And stars by the beach
Palms and the breeze
Men and Godmen
All delight as
The Opiate torchbearer
Falls in love
With fires


(C) Jatin Gandhi