H.K. KAUL (India)

Dr. H. K. Kaul is Secretary-General of the Poetry Society India. He has been the Editor of Indian Author, the Project Director of many literary projects, and Course-Director of Workshops for Afro-Asian Writers sponsored by the Ministry of Education, Government of India. He has authored and edited fifty books including seventeen volumes of poetry such as On the Waves, Firdaus in Flames, and Poetry of the Young.





Not only will the swan and the geese,
The gull and the water fowl leave their
Nests , but the wild fowl , as mouthpiece

Will migrate carrying our follies
To the Himalayan fronts
From where human masks will flower

” For even the lowest snakes. ”
Baba says : “Maha Padma , you
Have presided over the walks

Of the vast Wular to subdue
Vices for the few millenia,
Don’t tighten them up with your screw.

Let the birds awaken from their deep sleep.
Let them rise and sing for their valley’s keep.”


From the clean waters of Dal Lake
The fish fly out to find the roots
Of the misty air that outbreak

And keep them sealed in undershoots
Off the polished face of the sky.
They look about and watch the routes:

On the floating gardens
The ducklings dream with the ducks , goslings
And the geese, kingfishers and the wry

Golden Oriole raise their wings :
” How to keep self – esteem till
The shade of the mountain – cliffs rings.”

Nature reminds herself , the mountains are green,
Out of the death pangs flowers again will be seen.


Broken wings of some firebirds
Fall at the feet of Sankara,
With the ashes of the sworn words.

Sankara speaking to Shiva,
The devas and the devis, on,
The hill of Sankaracharya,

Returns again to his earthborn
Consciousness, and in subtle shadow
Moves past the buds of newborn

Maya that surround the fatal
Shoots of the supreme spirit. Gets
Pained at the loss of ideal.

Sankara’s chariot borne by the wind,
Watches all those suffer who’ve sinned.

Sankara thinks : ” I see my sin
In confining God to mortar
And stone , of describing his spins

Of transcendence in the slaughter
House of universal logic,
And of etching like a carver

The roads to homocentric
Temples : I have left followers
Scattered in demonic darkness.

As the life cycle flows through
Passages of birth and death
I dare not touch their burnt fingers.

Hope dies no death poets have said,
Hope is not hope when it is dead.


We now return to Qadir’s den
Where marks of frozen blood pattern
The walls and the floors. The men

Rejoice watching the blood play.
Abdul wonders, then remarks:
Don’t rejoice , again and again.

While blood bathes last
Our faces cannot be cast
Down. Cover the medals, our marks

On the walls with the new make – up,
And let the floor be carpeted
To leave signs for the backup.

Front will rejoice its victory after the war
Bring those into our fold who we all adore.


Until then do we not see the inner
Effects of foul weapons in
The dens of diverse winner groups!

Their hands have made their arms wade
Through serene heads, and tear off such
Eyes and ears , hands and arms , homely

breasts , cheeks and noses that were much
In love with shots of freedom.
See the blots on their walls, mark

The beats , smell the stink the darksome
Stones brew under the coats of creed,
And add new wings to their dictum.

The other groups change life from day to day,
Let us be firm and stay on our own way.”