poem#43
mother I will wipe your tears some other day
mother I will wipe your tears some other day
pooem#31
Sweetheart (in anachronistic romance)
let us write a poem together
though, let alone writing, you never did get
poetry.
Sweetheart, yet let us write a poem together.
I will write a stanza
and you will write a stanza-
your stanzas and my stanzas
one after another
will weave a poem together.
What? Is that tough? Are you not getting it?
Ok let us treat is like prose then.
I will write a line
and you will write a line
your lines and my lines
one after another
will weave a poem together.
What? Is that tough too? Are you not getting it?
Ok let us treat it like word game.
I will write a word
and you will write a word
your words and my words
one after another
will weave a poem together.
So let us begin. Here I go:
BREAK-
UP.
Sweetheart (in anachronistic romance)
let us write a poem together
though, let alone writing, you never did get
poetry.
Sweetheart, yet let us write a poem together.
I will write a stanza
and you will write a stanza-
your stanzas and my stanzas
one after another
will weave a poem together.
What? Is that tough? Are you not getting it?
Ok let us treat is like prose then.
I will write a line
and you will write a line
your lines and my lines
one after another
will weave a poem together.
What? Is that tough too? Are you not getting it?
Ok let us treat it like word game.
I will write a word
and you will write a word
your words and my words
one after another
will weave a poem together.
So let us begin. Here I go:
BREAK-
UP.
poem#30
My love
(in anachronistic romance),
I am writing a poem in your name.
You will not like what I write
or may be you will like it a
little bit now,
but you will surely like it a great deal less
as you read.
But I know you will read!
PAUSE
If you are reading
I presume you are merely being kind
to a poet (though you never knew what one was)
If you are reading still
I presume I should praise your patience (which I had not seen earlier)
If you are reading yet still
I presume,( though late), you are trying to be a connoisseur of art these days
If your are reading even now
I presume your are merely inquisitive (about what I can write after we have parted ways)
If you are reading even this line
I presume you have nothing else to do
and are submerged in my chaep flatterey
spitted by my 500 paisa pen
as I scribble your name.
You have nothing to do.
Please find something to do!
poem# 29
Today everything belongs to you
all belongs to you
you
to
me!
Today everything belongs to you
the lonely road to my
village with
the canopy of the
roadside korai and neem trees
that cast a
shadow
so divine and serene
and the white cranes perched in them
and the white cranes perched in them
belongs to you.
the melancholy of the
afternoon with
bliss of solitude and
the myriad of birds
chirping here and there coupled with the
occasional hamba of the cows
telling a stoy of a young romeo lost in emotions
chirping here and there coupled with the
occasional hamba of the cows
telling a stoy of a young romeo lost in emotions
belongs to you
the soft touch of the breeze
that blow over the
muddy village road
that goes for miles
without another man in sight
where I can whistle my tune without
fear or shame
and that carries with it the
smell of hay
wet earth
and dried hyacinths on the
edges of the
pool
belongs to you
that goes for miles
without another man in sight
where I can whistle my tune without
fear or shame
and that carries with it the
smell of hay
wet earth
and dried hyacinths on the
edges of the
pool
belongs to you
the deserted rose
lying on the
dusty road with its
story untold
of a young romeo
drowned in
romanticism
that may or may not have a
roof over its head
that may or may not have a
roof over its head
belongs to you
the dusty road
the divine shade
the birds
the breeze
the rose
the romeo
the moments
the melancholy
the melancholy
the heart
the hay
the hay
all belongs to you
and
you
belong
to
me!
poem#26
You and I are getting
far and far
far and far
you and I are getting from each other.
Not long ago my success
would please your heart
Today it alienates you,
threatens you like the shadow of another women.
I know I have done lots to breach you trust.
I am obsessed by my visions. I am always on the rush.
You say slow down. Let us build a home
Let us make children.
Let us be a family.
But I am a vagabond.
I have no home
I have no country
I have no attachment
I only want to travel
I only want to discover
places to places
milestones to milestones
challenges to challenges
women to women.
You and I are getting
far and far
far and far
you and I are getting from each other.
Not long ago my success
would please your heart
Today it alienates you,
threatens you like the shadow of another women.
I know I have done lots to breach you trust.
I am obsessed by my visions. I am always on the rush.
You say slow down. Let us build a home
Let us make children.
Let us be a family.
But I am a vagabond.
I have no home
I have no country
I have no attachment
I only want to travel
I only want to discover
places to places
milestones to milestones
challenges to challenges
women to women.
poem#23
We had met after many days-
after many days of fight
many days of silence
many days of debating whether you or I was right.
On the rickshaw you began to sing an old Hemonto Mukhopadhyay song
your head on my shoulders, your hand holding mine all along:
'koto raginir vul bhangate
bashi vore gelo aghate
projapoti pelo je betha
kata bone ful jagate.'
So lovely was the tune
and the lyrics so sweetly rhymed-
Today,
miles away
when I listen to the song on youtube- everytime
it seems the song was sung better in your feminine voice
it reminds me of you- your face.
And I sing:
So many flutes in vain
wooing the lady's scorn
so many birds in pain
flowering in a forest of thorn.
We had met after many days-
after many days of fight
many days of silence
many days of debating whether you or I was right.
On the rickshaw you began to sing an old Hemonto Mukhopadhyay song
your head on my shoulders, your hand holding mine all along:
'koto raginir vul bhangate
bashi vore gelo aghate
projapoti pelo je betha
kata bone ful jagate.'
So lovely was the tune
and the lyrics so sweetly rhymed-
Today,
miles away
when I listen to the song on youtube- everytime
it seems the song was sung better in your feminine voice
it reminds me of you- your face.
And I sing:
So many flutes in vain
wooing the lady's scorn
so many birds in pain
flowering in a forest of thorn.
poem#22
Without you
my kitchen will be the old mess;
so much dust and stain gathered
not a foot set in days.
The onions, the garlic, the chillies in the basket- the vegetables
in the shelf- long wilted
The soap bar- with little water in its case- has melted
the tap is crammed
the basin pipe jammed
used utensils reeking of stale curry
lie here and there
those cock roaches have bred a generation- their young ones- oblivious of me
pry everywhere.
I do not know where you placed the salt
or the sauce
I cannot find the match box
There is some oil in the bottle-long due its date;
the chilli powder- damp- is hard as brick
the stove- rusted; the gas line seems to leak.
Where is the fry pan?
Oh I see it- hanging in the safe- shadowed by a spider's web.
Squinting my eyes I nervously break an egg into the pan
the oil spills- a dozen drops lands- on my body neck and face
I rush to the tap-
I shower water- but bruises have made their brown trace.
The fire goes on
goes on
goes on.
The egg burns. The burnt face smokes. I do not feel like turning it over...
I miss you in your absence
I miss you when I am playing your role
I miss you when I am a lonely soul!
Without you
my kitchen will be the old mess;
so much dust and stain gathered
not a foot set in days.
The onions, the garlic, the chillies in the basket- the vegetables
in the shelf- long wilted
The soap bar- with little water in its case- has melted
the tap is crammed
the basin pipe jammed
used utensils reeking of stale curry
lie here and there
those cock roaches have bred a generation- their young ones- oblivious of me
pry everywhere.
I do not know where you placed the salt
or the sauce
I cannot find the match box
There is some oil in the bottle-long due its date;
the chilli powder- damp- is hard as brick
the stove- rusted; the gas line seems to leak.
Where is the fry pan?
Oh I see it- hanging in the safe- shadowed by a spider's web.
Squinting my eyes I nervously break an egg into the pan
the oil spills- a dozen drops lands- on my body neck and face
I rush to the tap-
I shower water- but bruises have made their brown trace.
The fire goes on
goes on
goes on.
The egg burns. The burnt face smokes. I do not feel like turning it over...
I miss you in your absence
I miss you when I am playing your role
I miss you when I am a lonely soul!
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