Kuldeep Kumar Srivastava

Silence, masked in a tranquil voice, the face is hidden- life gobbles on: unintended, a sanctuary of drenched desires, your aura beams yourself- teeming jungle lurks, eternally. memories

Staggering, infinity left no iota of wistfulness, But walked calmly, talking to the silent trees, The ones breathing slowly but quite audibly, Mysteriously blue, cool sky teased the shy moon. A

Myself, me and I, the three inner voices, keep ejaculating, when silence needed. Intutions, significances and progressions, keep crusading, when deviations needed. Zealous geniuses reverse pooped

Before reading this poem pl read the note at the bottom. Saturday Dinner Party It is a Saturday. It is seven o’ clock. Next day is a Sunday, the day of rest. Cars after cars, small

I have come to bear, take with me unappetizing impression, seriousness of backward leanings surrounding us all the time, all the days, all the months, all the years, leave amidst these very

murkier fate teaches me don’t bury your dead climb up to yourself; to descend where stars never visit.

On this edge of outer darkness shimmering mystery suffocates; each one of us explores a mirage dissolving away into a fixed world.

There is something in you that keeps me alive; your beauty-a steady, gentle flow where broods immeasurable depths; the naked full moon, unable to unveil you sleeps again, in wait for yet another

The fog has just settled; so many human faces, another fog-awaited to cover these faces.

"The shadowy nymphs irked me off and on, an unending story, like a lily drowning selflessly in a watery pond of tearless tears, my chivalry gazed at undecorated asymmetries of the

The tears have come and gone the night has vanished, fragile day begins, surreptituously, my fingers will move on, again, to search the words, precious words to capture the dreams sucked by

In my aloneness, the whole world sees me; through my aloneness I see the whole world.

There seems to exist a context; in the very dead of itself forcing exclusion, a denial a non-seeing— a collocation of an emptiness that awaits and a fullness that departs and in between is

\"An Armless Hand Writes\" is K.K.Srivastava’s second collection of poems. While Srivastava’s lyrical short poems show polish and finish, several longer poems have a muscular

We seem to believe, nothing that exists chagrins us. nor what does not. we trust untenable parts; the wholeness of us, loathsomeness of silence, hunt the being down. In the larger

Being and/or becoming exist on two incommunicable levels; my presence is without my being me or without my becoming being. Falseness is a problem interiorities of consciousness seek to

Unequalled inequities, stretching, derision and glory; making excellent bed fellows. No shape, no significance, no flux, no

I do look forward to meet those who have instilled insensibilities into restlessness of mine, restlessness as infecund as I am. A scene occurs. Men and their frozen lips give me their fleeting

You, a resplendent wind, sparkling and alive in everything taking me into your lap, lulling me into deepening sleep, motionless. You, a melting fire, numbing the impulses within

We live within our dreams, our redeeming facts of life, outside, in a state of chaotic indifference; realities have emerged victorious, putting fantasy into action. The straying