Debashish Haar,
Editor, Alchemy Cove
I am a theoretical physicist by training, took to poetry when I was a PhD student! Well, I am also currently editing an adventurous literary magazine.  If you are interested to publish something ripping off the straight jacket, do visit me.

I read a wide variety of literature, keeping aside my own domain of interest (non-equilbrium statistical mechanics, don't need to mention details I suppose). In poetry I am currently doing some experiments, and rapidly transforming my work. I don't think only form poetry demands discipline. I believe in WCW, e.e. cummings, DH Lawrence or T. E. Hulme's philosophies/ verse libre movement
Song of Innocence

The ashes ripple the stream
of gleaming moments.
Like stillness into motion is rejoicing:
the child is the man, the man is the child.
The man has forgotten
the song of innocence.

The child shivers before the high walls,
and the floor grows into an abyss.
The present’s starched and dried
to get fresh creases, the sun falls asleep.
Its red covering leaps
as if echoing the erotic works of ash
in peripheral time.

The sky deepens into a bigger abyss
adorned in black cloud, black rocks.
Fist of blood breaks gates of stones;
only air is human in this solitude!

Desire transfixes inside the primeval eye.
The eye that transmutes as a bird
whose wings outstretch
to explore the motion and the stillness.
It opens and closes the doors
that open into rooms
often with no interior.

Five Roses

Five roses and ten stems,
Billions in refuge,
Thorns ripping flesh
As the basket stays afloat,
Standing on the horns of blue.

Stems are dry and have blight,
So grafted and recycled.
Roses stay and bloom—
Bees and butterflies
Market their scent in globes.

Roses stay and bloom...

Changes the whorl and hue,
One replaced, three added—
Yet same flesh they rip apart—
Stems bleed colorless blood.

In the Patios of Echoes

We arrive too late, no matter where we go,
to gather what we leave behind—
in the patios of echoes where our voices float,
in cities and mansions where we live,
in the streets that block our directions.

We often meet in streets and dreams…

Often when we meet in streets
we avoid each other, thinking they are dreams.
When we meet in dreams
we try to touch each other, thinking we are in streets.
Streets where all the houses are empty,
streets where faces walk to search themselves
behind their windows.

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