Like pattern of organically inflow of blood groups

To form a new life, leaving behind parental acceptor and donor sublime,

We are moving in the bottom of the love

To sink into sea-life, a process known as fission,

Strangeness in budding seeds and flowers,

A vesicles’ journey between formation and transition,

Of many modes of life, light, flow of tides, briefly described,

When we are in love pursuits that we like to live in enzymes,

Changes are there since we take birth to fill the earth

In venerable delight, as accepted disciples of God and Life. 



Asim Kumar Paul at International Poetry Fest, 2011, Guntur, India (Photo-1)

On my way, I am in a waiting room,

New Delhi Railway Station,

I am travelling with valid train tickets,

To attend International Poetry Fest, 2011, Guntur.

I am waiting for my train,

For Vijayawada, then to Guntur, AP, India.

I am waiting for you, honey,

O my distant lady, I want to have

A train journey with you.

I want to tell you that loving intention,

And I gather up whole of my dream

Of beautiful love under one sun.

I am seeing all moving amplitudes of passengers,

Coming here, waiting here, and

Then they go for their scheduled journey.

One young woman comes with her husband

Having two kids below five years of age,

Who walk, run and fall on the floor,

And both are boys,

And she dances with the kids to control them,

And her husband stands by with luggage,

And smiles at the kids’ glittering enthusiasm,

Who are his sound love and care, and

Their mother is youthful, child-like defiance with love.

I love it; I am also feeling pleasure with them.


Another woman comes with her husband,

They are smiling always,  and talking with themselves,

And they sit close by shoulders,

And her husband puts her head on his shoulder,

With his left hand bounding her back of shoulders around,

They are in friendly excitement, charming and darling,

With beauty, and enthrall of love and life.

I love it; it is a life of love and continuity.


One young woman comes with pleasant dresses,

And dances with a kid of her kin, and

She moves with the boy where he goes,

And the entire waiting room is her walking region.

She is a pretty young woman, and

She has a beautiful face and body.

She cannot stay on a chair for a moment,

She likes to sit before young boys,

Who are holding cell phones at their hands.

These young boys make  attempts

To take snaps of her glimpses,

Of her beauty  that is  flickering and moving around.

One boy has tried to take a snap of her,

In his cell phone camera, but he fails,

As she is restless in crowd gathering,

And cannot be snapped separately,

And I find the boy rubs his forehead with his fingers,

As he has not met success to snap photograph of her.

I love it. It is natural for selection, love and time’s wonder.

Note: Picture credit: Poet Dr. Dalip Kumar Khetarpal, and Background lady: poet Dr. Nagasuseela, who is the co-organizer of the poetry fest with poet Dr. P. Gopichand at JKC College, Guntur.


I walk around, wait a bit, and again close the social web site,

I wait for her, she is not here, and time has passed, in vain,

I look at my phone, I look at my watch, and she is not here,

I fear to call her, she may be busy, or she may be preparing her

To appear before me, yet I am in fear, in the sense of roots of love.

And in the milieu of dead zeal that she may not talk with me,

As she is beautiful and has many friends who praise her,

And wait for her like me, and they want to love her.

They are more in-house than me as I am living many, many

Miles away, and I cannot run to see her how she is,

And some of her friends are so close, anyone can give her

A message – for preparing for meeting in her home – my pain.

For hours we have talked earlier, and I think she is my best friend

When I talk with her, and she has behaved like we are close together,

Distance is not a bar, but feeling on words is cheering charm of love.

And thus we have spent a few months after our meeting here

In the social web site, and she loves to talk with some pause,

Like, “Wait, let me make a cup of coffee, I am thirsty of it.”

After some moments, she returns, and she is polite

To tell me, “Are you bored? I am sorry, and as coffee is brewing,

I cannot come letting it spill over, and do not want to waste it more.”

My answer is short, and I say in an ironical way,

That nothing has happened, and for a friend of real essence,

Waiting for her is like a taking a breath in love,

And ascertained significance of understanding crops up

Like flowering bud in the firmament of love, I make it OK.

Today she is absent, and I am in the poor flight in the lonely sky,

And my richness of my heart to love her feels the pain in cloud,

That may bring rain in my heart, yet I hope I can talk with her.

Wave page is thus monotonous to me today, zealous pursuance.



My mother was in worst disease when I was child, in 1950s

And she had gone to hospital for treatment.

After waiting in a long queue, she had medicines free,

From all corners she got help and sympathy,

Drew attention of all and she got the relief,

And on the long-term she had made a life,

And she made a green leave spinning

with ease like welcome singing, and felt glories of life,

We are all healthy in the courageous life.

Gradually, when we fall ill, we visit hospitals,

Make tickets; stand in the queue, and after a long gap,

We find medicines are not in stores and

Prescribed medicines are to be purchased outside,

And next day we read in the newspaper that

Some corruption has crept in purchasing medicines,

And authority decides to remove purchasing medicines,

And men in the fields of action forward decision

For commons to know, all actions stand in the support

To deviate the loss due to inflated tender rates,

It is not desirable for a promising health care system,

And the authority is in austerity, having no mass purchase of medicines, and medicines will be given to the very poor.

On medical front,  then we find some strange characters,

New nursing homes are coming out for treatment,

And well-to-do persons are accommodated in those places,

And there are slogans, and a belief is thrown among people

Hospitals are bad in treatment, and nursing homes

Are best places for treatment in the present context of

Modern facilities and developments, and we find, there is

A new culture of nursing homes or health care centers.

And big fanfare declarations are coming out

At every place and every corner of life,

And a shabby situation is gradually dropped inside hospitals

Like dropping of waste leaves from a tree.

And people like us are in bankrupt place to get

Facilities of this highly acclaimed treatment facilities,

And a new class of people has been born

Who have all those facilities and they are proud of life,

And we are the onlookers and stand on the shore of an ocean

Of these people, and watch the affluent stratum are moving,

The wind of progress blows and we sand outside this wind,

We are like dark side of the colorful life

That is now making progress in our domain,

And we cannot ride together in the field of style and sovereignty. 

We, in the middle group, are observers, and cannot step inside affluent rides, nor in the poor lattice of eyes, nor even in medical insurance, not having money to pay premium as introduced newly,

And one day we will pass away falling in disease, unnoticed.


Mobs gather before peoples’ temple.

Gods inside have to serve realm of love,

Lifting veil of consignment and

earmarked propositions inside,

and the mobs say there is no atmosphere,

to draw something in the betterment,

they say staying inside is rich to live,

and to serve is like making infants

exactly protected by birth that they are entitled

to have, prevailing in heavenly bliss.

Mobs have faith in motherly caress, and

They are vocals for love

In father’s universality in ruling confidence,

Mobs think everything is absent,

They can think for everything of you and their terms

To occupy love and enjoy it.

They have answers for their act,

They say Gods inside have no parts to answer

To the question of life and its tenancy

Of sovereign intentions, these

Gods are gray haunting fragments,

That bring only protests inside and outside,

Mobs love to be loved

They know they have meaning of love,

That is absent in all people’s temples,

That moves on tease and austerity

Into the literally broken situation.

People’s temples are not always people’s vision,

It is for those whose lives begin with commons’ support,

And whole episode turns into a folly of love,

And the horizons of love cannot bloom like PURUSHA,

An able-bodied man with good prophesy to turn

Everything inside and outside truly glorious with love.


I am now broken granite,

Desire, passion, life – three wings of love –

Take me to a mowed down grass in projection on

Marching to a land of solitude and sadness.

And my defeat is confirmed,

And focuses of love subdue me to the retreat:

It  is my failure to love and restore more love.

In the past we talked together in summer and in winter.

We were friends,

Having praises and loving wildness,

And we lived in a system of dreaming passage

Kindred on an attire on ultra high love pathway,

And resolutions have no limits,

Participation had not microscopic analysis

We are bold to mingle into body and mind.

Now I feel a convulsion,

Images of love are not sharp like earlier,

And that time, distance is not a criterion,

Attendance all the time is the focus,

Gracious tech boys and girls are then prompt

To deliver our messages day and night,

Through SMS, MMS, e-mails, writing on the wall,

Or telephonic talks, off-line messages, marching on eagerness,

As if nativity of love digs deep into ambient love.

Then my heart is a dwelling place of her beautiful face,

As if we are electrons emitted from love filament,

And gets acceleration in love electric fields,

Now wind brings autumn,

Life, shine and love are in valid embodiment,

In the jubilant bosoms of love of tide embrace,

And in this very message of love and intimacy,

We do breathe warm in loving fire.

But on this time she is not with me,

And the telephone replies,

“She will not receive any call now.”

And I feel I have lost the marching love,

I still think we are on our heels for love,

As we are in dream contingency,

And I hope to march further steps like mythological love.

Repeatedly I make her calls on telephone,

Reply comes in recorded voice,

“This telephone is not reachable to my embrace,

I want love, so I am bored with this call, and

I am in busy; please do not trace me in debris.”

Yes, I feel as I cannot reach her, my love is lost,

And I cannot bring concord, my orchard is drying,

At a time when the season of love is spongy

In the majesty of love divine,

And fingers cannot float on precursors,

In woman sensation promising in love entirety.

And I cannot be aid to her love,

And she cannot be aid to my love,

And our house of love is now an afterlife dream,

Green passage of insertion is now weary postulates

Across the land and the sea, a losing answer of love.

Tenancy aspect of love does not live in high vacuüm,

As love molecules need air molecules to spread more love.


Social web sites

Make progress

Like water that wets

The lips

And fingers

Spills over keyboard,

And in the way

Words are crazy,

Birth place,

Burial place

Fingers are

Burning candles

Selfishness goes down,

We go, above us,

Yet we yell

For the net work.

Failing spells come,

If one cannot

Go to places

For work and livelihood,

And does not contact the person,

In love and beauty’s charm,

Then comes whirling hue,

All are broken like card-house,

And one has to find safe heaven,

To see the needful arrival,

With thirst of love autumn,

Web site is an airy assemble,

Like a sword in trifling burr.