rati saxena

I am Kritya.
The intense word power,
which always moves along with the ultimate truth,
which exists completely in accord with rightness.


Wings of an ant

They said an ant does not have wings
Then said even if she had them, she cannot fly

If there is no flight, why suffer the pain of wings?
Wings show the death of the ant is near

But death itself is flight

The ant started flying
Holding the light blue light

Bending her wings towards the south
An illusion of silence in the noise

Towards the yellow light
She flew against her life

Carrying flight in the cells of her body
Bringing a seed for the next generation


My bed sheet

That morning there was a small crack
In my bed sheet,
The result of my dream sleep

For a whole day I quarreled with silk threads
Before sleeping again bounteous
dreams flowed in from my window

Next day, again, a crack; this time
Colors supported silk
Before night there was a door

Now my dream sleep could go out the door
Instead of peeping out of a window
To roam aimless the whole night

Every morning brought a new crack
Every afternoon I was busy in silk, colours and brushes

Now on my bed sheet there is a big courtyard with a banyan tree
Birds are on the banyan with red stars in their beaks

The sun and the moon are still far away
I search a new crack every day
Day by day

So that I can weave the sun and moon
In this primitive Universe
Across all other Universes

At last, a small crack
From which I come out

into this crackless aura


The Frames of Pictures...

I always wish to
Fix myself
Inside the frames of pictures,
To become friends with
The walls.

I place myself into a
Picture from the eighteenth century.
Now I have only two colors
And one pose
But no butterflies on the flowers of
My blouse.

I walk way ahead of my time
Reaching into a twentieth century frame;
All of a sudden so many colors start jumping at me
That my first colors fade.

I don’t think that I can be a friend to the walls,
They only cross my ways.

Pictures, please wait,
Your frames are smaller than my height.


Time Tables

Give me a time table
Without my own time there.

Then give me a time table
In which only my time exists.

I will drink both time tables
Like a mango shake.

My time will be inside me
And I will be out of it.


Time Near To Me

Today I woke up late,
Ignored the cup of tea,
Started reading an unknown Lithuanian poet.
His poems were open, like cattle
And my words started filling the spaces between them.

Today I ignored the unclean utensils in the sink,
Didn’t bother to fold the washed cloths.
I turned on the TV, changed the channels
And let my room fill with many voices.

Words took flight from my fingertips,
Fingers on the keyboard
When a poem took birth on my computer.
Time was wandering around me
Like my tame dog.


All Those Sins

All those sins
I’m trying to forget,
Piled on my back
Growing like mountains

Now I am
A snail
Slow, slow and slow


Time is changing
I look at the mirror
The Calendar is
Only an echo of figures


Embracing the umbilical cord
I want to sleep
In the womb
Of eternity

Should I pass again through
Pangs of pain?


Everyone in search of
A flute
To entice
All the rats

Chinese astrology
This is the Year of the Rat


I offer my karma
To astrologers
Now they tell me
All about my
Eating, drinking and sleeping

Where’s my upper part
Above the neck?


The Hymn of the Lost Slippers

The taste is very bitter, from tongue to throat, down to the intestine, bitterness Everywhere,
Everything’s bitter, the toothpaste in the tube, the broken brush. everything
Till nightfall, everything was fine, a good sleep and endless dreams . . .
Most of the  dreams disappeared with night, but they came with me up to the morning
And stuck to my eyelids till the eyes opened
There were a number of slippers and I  was searching for mine
There my flight’s ready to go, here my slippers are missing
Why should I give up my journey because of slippers? I told myself
But a journey by air without slippers is out of the question
How many steps can I walk without slippers?
These slippers are my feet and my knees;
And my legs? Oh, they’re only sticks
Which can’t walk without slippers;
Slippers are my identity, my personality
They’re the height by which I can touch the sky
They’re my present and future
The beauty of my dress;
If a jewel is missing, no one will notice
But if the heel of a slipper is broken, the whole world will turn to you:
In this case losing slippers is losing oneself
My journey’s starting and I’m searching for my slippers
My flight’s ready , but I’m in search of slippers
My future’s crying but I’m in search of slippers;
Slippers are my Mantra, slippers are my Dharma
They’re not missing, I am losing my self



I placed my genes
On the laboratory table
And thus began my search
For my past life’s story

My genes fluttered, but didn’t fly
I understood too well
I was never a butterfly
Never a bird
My wings never had that verve

My genes lay still
Didn’t even crawl
I never lived the earthworm’s life

Forget the tales of ants and honeybees
I never could join the queue

I saw myself as a table, a chair too,
And then came to know
I was a window
The open wide
That the world looks through;
When closed, a number of worries
Are behind me

I extend the window
To the floor,
Make it a door,
Open it and come out


Return Journey of Moonlight

Mother is sleeping in
Mortuary’s freezer
Closed eyes
Hands on chest
Ready for purification in fire

Behind the glass cover
Her closed eyes are
Two butterflies sleeping
We feel as if they’ll flutter
At any moment
And forget to cry

Geeta takes us
Beyond death
After the fourteenth chapter
Mother’s bed is empty
Where is she?
Under the glass?
Or sitting here
Listening to the Geeta
Which she asked me to read
Long long ago

We aren’t able to cry
Not even smile
But can’t be quiet
She comes into our talk
Into our tears
And sometime with a smile
We feel her presence everywhere

Forty-eight hours passed
on the icy bed
She had arthritis
Isn’t this too much cold for her?

Today she must go
Not by walking, she’s forgotten how to walk for years,
Nor with the support of that stick she’s never liked
But on four shoulders
As she came in a palaki after marriage

Mother’s taking a bath
But why on the bed?
Mother’s wearing clothes
While sleeping
Mother’s getting ready
On the wooden structure

“You still have swelling in your right foot;
How will you climb so many steps”?
Asks her daughter

She didn’t stop
She started her journey to make
Fire more pious

Don’t cry, mother asked us
This time rain came early
Maybe the sky didn’t know

Mother’s horoscope
In the lap of Geeta
Old and crumbled
Falls down as soon as
Someone touches the paper
Every daughter has her own experience
And her own smell of memories
Of mother
I’m trying to peep in the corners
Which are broken down
And find the life she lost

Knots are open
The pot is broken
Wood is laid around
Grandson has given his offering to her fire

“May the doors of heaven…”
Elder daughter asks her god
The youngest one cries for
Her lost nest

“The Mother of a daughter
Is a queen”
Father’s saying became

Mother liked the river
And its banks
The boats on banks
The sway of the boats
A bath in river
And her own Krishna deity

Mother who’s hidden in a small bag
Was so happy meeting her friend River

There came a moon shadow
And then a bubble
Life is over

She was the story
Which is finished

She was power
Which is diminished

She was moonlight
Which went back

She was a chapter
Which is closed



This word fills me
With fear these days:
Final wish, final moment,
Final meeting…

I have no regrets
that I’ve met no one in years
For I believe he lives
and exists
in some corner of this world

I hope, always
that he will come, one day
Without warning, smile and grasp my hand
Perhaps even embrace me…

But what if this is our final meeting?
Then the sinews of my throat, like the Koel’s,
Will cry out and
Break free from its cage

Will it flow out in a stream of blood?
This “final” word written with my life,
Will it finally be cleansed free?



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