About CC

R. C. Shukla (b. 1943) retired as H.O.D. English in 2003 from K.G.K. College, Moradabad in the state of Uttar Pradesh. He is the most prolific Indian English poet as is evident from the publication of his poetry collections from 2000 to 2013. His poetry collections includeDarkness At Dawn, A Belated Appearance,Depth and Despair, My Poems Laugh, The Parrot Shrieks,The Parrot Shrieks II, The Parrot Shrieks III, Ponderings I, Ponderings II and Ponderings III. He resides at MIG 33, Ramganga Vihar, Phase-2, Moradabad-244001 (UP) India.

1. What Is The Sense?

They, the mystiques, assuage

never fear death

it comes to take your cloak, not you.

you are imperishable

an inseparable part of the whole

a light always linked with the sun

a drop, the necessary part of the sea

inexhaustible, infinite.

(2)

There may be truth in this

but

there can be no communication

between one standing in the sky

and the other

languishing on the land.

(3)

When the blue balloon dies

the child begins to weep

but the father consoles

never worry son

you shall have another one

better than that you have lost

and the child is consoled.

(4)

I can adjust with the thought

that I never die

what dies is only something stale

something old

something false

unworthy of the spark living within.

(5)

But I’m scared

I shall come again

with a new cover bracing and bright

journey through the same forest

I journeyed in the past

and shall wane again

as the vapours wane

when the morning sun shines.

(6)

Let me understand

let some Janak

some Ashtavakra

some Krishna

or some Vivekananda come

and explain to me

what is the sense in

my coming here again and again?

Is this coming and going

and then coming again

not a part of the show?

2. Loneliness Broken

Loneliness broken by a woman is unsafe

If she comes

She comes

with all the allurements she has.

Living in loneliness means

Living with a pledge

Living again and again to efface

Practising abnegation

And when

A woman suddenly enters

It’s a rain

In the month of June.

When a woman just stands without word

She examines patience

And when she sits

She only waits for the sentence

And if

The sentence is hesitant

She opens her umbrella

Even without any rain.

3. I Questioned

When little was left

with me to be proud of

and chances of riding a brave horse

were scarce

my hopes rested on love

a nest in which I would enter

like a bird terrified by the storm.

My past!

it was a plant dead in spite of efforts

a mango which

after its initial growth

had become sick.

I questioned

where is your future?

a damp and muggy morning

can hardly promise a noon capable to warm

capable to enliven those

victimized by the frost.

As such

anticipating that

the land was barren

and the fish in my pond dead

I planned I would live

in the glasshouse of love

and manage my poems

in place of an axe

never handed over to me.

4. I did not Celebrate

Why should I toil

when the sun in the west forbids

and my sick eyes

conversing with my guns diseased

are worried about an end?

(2)

What have I attained

and what more can be added

when today

after the expiry of a duration

I am as poor as I was

when my grandmother smiled?

(3)

Where is the wisdom

In feeling scared about tomorrow

a weather mysterious

an address without name?

(4)

I never looked within

never connected myself with the wire

that can spontaneously activate the lamp

with sufficient light

to banish a thing very dark.

(5)

I did not celebrate in my house

Instead

I collected strangers in the hall

called cooks inexperienced

managed a drum

to experience a very frivolous joy.

5. Sex is Not Cohabitation Alone

My dear friend

Dear dear friend

Sex is not cohabitation alone

It is something beyond

A deed clouds do to define themselves.

If clouds are there

The season is present

Even without rains

Dark, grey clouds

Simulating to rain

Though they do not.

Sometimes

Clouds simply thunder without a deed

They roam in the sky

Or, like pilgrims,

Walk in groups

This is season.

The peacocks dance looking towards the sky

And a pleasant wind is posted

For our ease

This is season.

If two grown up leaves touch each other

Or one curious branch

Amorously bends over the other

And the tree is informed

This is sex.

The pigeons touch each other’s beak

And the two penguins bath in waters

Afterwards dance and chirp

This is sex.

Sex is a proclivity, a symptom

An expression of mood, of intent

It is a prologue to the epic of love

Nor exclusively the deed

Which is pure need.