remaining un-public

as dust insignificant am i, doing nothing
these days, except sitting like a rock
in middle of the stream, that public life
flowing fast without my feet walking

and unlike those with electronic equipment
seated on ground as if grounded to reality
discoursing, but beyond my senses, a living-
out in full the modernity with mere pressing

of buttons, while i amass old postage stamps,
hoping gold coins suddenly appear from sand,
a dream with no great earthly value to strengthen
a dam to collect wealth to transact, to remain public

henry victor     05.03.2013

just in

each morning i wake with your gentle pat
that floats in the dawn light lightly touching
my cheeks and forehead after a good night
sleep with you beside, sleepless, watching

over my feeble frame with that anxious soul
fearful of the faltering arteries, vessels capable
of blocking, or clotting blood that streams
through to keep together the nightly dreams

that i at dawn may pet, pat another soul revealing
your essence, demanding me to bend down
to kiss him sleeping beside after repeated rolling
to lodge my pillow and with his arm to hug to own

henry victor     01.03.2013

seating you

when i seat you at the head of the table
making you my master host, you pull
your chair aside to sit beside another
farther from me committed to your

welfare making my comforts secondary
but when I am engrossed in my labour
to make my life tidy, you push the stool
beside me away to seat yourself on my knees

disrupting my efforts, demanding my total
attention, my undiluted affection and love
a single minded worship with no trace
of hypocrisy to make my in and out the same

henry victor     23.02.2013

a piece of poop

i see my nothingness clearly yet becoming
a bodhisattva is nothing but a mirage
unreal water good not for quenching
thirst of self, tired of search among poop

lee and scum people leave behind in cup
unlike that of the creatures bigger but smaller
brains for palaeontologists and the likes
to construct and instruct me the path

to nirvana, that extinction, a blowing out
to me a smaller a crow on the tree top
that worthless chicken poop in a fowl cage
walking on ground with shoes with no grip

making the walking tedious and frustrating
looking always down on the ground
unable to see awesome scenes around
to spark fire in heart, an energy for soul

henry victor     21.02.2013

perfect purity

in your innocence

that perfect purity

you call me a dumb idiot!

reprimanding me

for not waiting to hear you speak

to listen to your babbling

see a little brook

flowing

from the centre of your being

a chunk from the divine

cut out like a piece of cheese

a nourishment to a malnourished soul

a feeble me, poisoned also by love

betrayed

but to bathe in your water

untouched and un-dirtied

by schooling

at home, or elsewhere

it is to wash my body, mind and heart

of that filth from sculpting a family

my dream, now turned a nightmare

that keeps haunting me

even as you embrace me

to kiss my forehead with your soft lips

that have still not learnt to speak a lie

unlike your mother

and her mother so skillful in that art

henry victor     20.01.2013

my new home

justin, my three-year old grandson
with his lego pieces built a house
on my coffee table, and a garden
beside, and for my car a driveway

who will cook in this house
from him i queried, for which
he responded quick, ‘thatha’
responding with similar speed

also to my second question
who will eat here
‘justin and thatha’
with no doubts about it

henry victor     12.11.2012

Note: The common Tamil word for grand-father is “thatha”.

the struggle

to remain a little longer under that blanket
in the space heated with my own body heat
i preferred but struggling against, in the same
time, idleness to live the ideal of an early riser

i win the battle but with an empty trophy
i wake but to empty trash for collection
to shorten a word to fit into an empty page
to re-naming empty, un-rhyming phrase as poem

do i complain, then, to heaven the unfairness
picking crumbs fallen from the table when
the partying is over and the music is stopped
as i still secretly hope the distant water to be real

for too many mirages i have witnessed
after driving many miles through the land
of opportunity, a journey I began leaving
my mother land to book my six foot space

henry victor     22.10.2012