A boy often falling over other boys Having a big company of girls Trying to be a classical dancer Hands used to move like waves of a sea Giving everything the perfect texture Had Rabindranath, Had Rituparno Girls spending their time with coffee mugs Discussing about the hunky boys Busy in revealing the underwear Alongwith the serpentine biceps Talks[Read More...]
My harvest without a red bell
From my farm
Beneath the well
Watching those eyes burn
Even when few clouds assist
And few turn soft pillows
Making it my debt
I am the last crop
We met at the wrong time,
which, as chance would have it,
is always the right time. No one
who doesn’t know will ever know
what passion can do to calendars.
The seed of ignorance
luring your soul
Your uncivilized
male chauvinism
– I don’t support these
Is there any specific reason
that I should support darkness?
The silly dates where
choice of make-ups
and dresses
were governed
by your whims
Materialistic marriages
having no survival guarantee
– these have never been
parts of my daydreams
I’m not bounded
to be your wife
I’m not bounded
to bear your kids
as I know for you
a woman is merely
an object of lust
They are only scratches and scuffed knees… I’ll survive.
Detours and shortcuts often times
deceptively lead to ‘The Long Way Around’
If it was not for the constant small mistakes
I would have nothing to weigh my successes against.
Misfortune runs hand in hand with Good Luck,
it’s natural, and simply the other side of Life’s Coin.
To Grow is to Learn, hard falls lead to brighter rises.
The ‘Road To Ruin’ need not be a fixed destination…
rather, a misstep in need of remedying.
Experience gives you wisdom…
I don’t have one foul note to pitch
against anything or anyone anymore…
at least for today.
The government continues to do its thing,
and so I pay
taxes
on bread and butter
unto the grave.
Maybe my rage will return
the moment they start trying
to charge for each breath
that enters these lungs.
But right now at the park
the air is full of dirt
as a tractor drags the infield
to smooth out its surface.
I don’t mind
the conditions
at all;
there are no bad hops
Imagine
the pebbles
with peppercorns
paired
Trace
the footprints
landing in spice
where talons,
descending
from mountains
wading
through snow
in the fog
swimming in dreams
twixt the mist
and the cold fish
swimming in streams
shavings of garlic
seasoning hot
meet tomatoes
without reason
to be kissed
in the pot.
A German comrade
quipped, “When you
Come to Frankfurt
You’ll find bronze celebrating
Poets, painters, philosophers—
But you won’t find the
Führer’s face any place—
Bratwurst, beer and Jazz
in Berlin; but you’ll find
lime green leprechauns
before patinas of Goebbels,
and Goering glaring from
park and plaza pedestals…”
Italian bandmates chimed in,
“Come with us when we go home—
you won’t find Mussolini’s
mug in Milan, or Rome…”
And the Butoh dancer blurted,
“And no Tojo in Tokyo!”
The cry of a child
competes with the tv
in a ghetto apartment,
while mother is at work.
The cry of a child
is muffled by the hand
of mother’s abusive boyfriend,
while she is at work.
The cry of a child
is ignored by the nanny
chatting on her cellphone,
while mother is at work.
Exiled like some romanov heir
a lone monarch roams among
milkweed stalks left unscythed
to promote population rebound.
Frost marks the end of sweetness,
a veneer of rime on silver tassels,
journey of ten thousand leagues
beginning merely with a wing flap.
Via natural selection this noble bug
is alert to traces of glyphosate
on the corn flowers, conscious too
of magnetic deflections induced,
not by the age-old polar alignment,
but by smouldering slag heaps and
mobile tank columns apt to scramble
