Monday, April 20, 2015

Living-room


Cold-warm afternoon,
Lay on my living-room
Pigeons warm up the windowsill,
There’s wooing in the coo, I guess
Winds embrace my windows,
Flirt with the leaves of Tobu,*
A tree I named after my cousin, who died for a cause
When I was thirteen!
Tobu has grown up to cover my balcony,
Comfort my house, with freshness
Of unmatched smell and nestling sound
Real and natural!

Can hear the stable clock,
Down somewhere, cows graze
The caressed meadow moos in delightful tunes
I can feel the oil and the sun
Making love to hatch the pickles in those age-old jars
On the terrace, love a necklace, all around
Far, far away, distinct whistles of the train and its wheels
Penetrate in my ears with a travel dwindle;
When I was young, I’d pack those bags and hold alls
For that one month of relief
From work, household chores!
Then, I had a family, who, later, for no reason at all, had to join Tobu
Stayed alive in the headlines, in candles for some days

Now, no vocation, other than reading news that talks of bloodshed
Of horror and terror, still loveless neck-less and processed,
The greed of good governance waters them with honor,
Like I water the plant,
With every killing in the unreal world,
Tobu stands tall, nourished and nurtured
Represents the fallen stars through its leaves and its parts
Those bulletins tell me though the world is not livable any more,
No room for peace
Asks me to believe in this!
Despite the overwhelming calm in my world
An unending supply of bliss!

In a while, familiar faces will come, do their work, and leave
Some wouldn’t show up I know,
With their reasons I’d willingly accept, in a tomorrow,
For I know, even if they didn’t come, grasses will grow
All of us work here with mistakes lost and won, sans stress
For reasons good or bad, a mess here, is not in mess
I’d have to attend to calls offering personal loans and jobs
No I am not interested, I’d say to them, politely though
I’d wait for them to hang up, for they made the call…
Work of other nature, will be done, some undone, with no fuss at all
And then, the ball of light will fade from the sky, will be gone
To brighten up another part, lit up with love, those pages to be sung
With birth of earthly inexhaustible love, to seldom bereave, or leave
Sky! O sky! This love you see with all your eyes,
But O heavens the loved look for paradise?
My palace of peace, in this I believe

Here, darkness switches on remotes, from all around
To fill the vacuum, with uncontrolled traffic of sounds
The errors make up for entertainment
An escapade from the dreadful day spent
Unnatural and unreal!

I am in my living-room,
With those pigeons
The whistles and the wheels
The clock
The cows
The meadow
The employees
The calls
The soft, steady and stable birth of the pickles on the terrace
The winds smiling through the leaves of Tobu

Note

*Tobu – a Bengali word that means ‘still’, ‘yet’. The /t/ is soft, like French. It is to be pronounced as /to/ as in ‘toast’ and /bu/ as in ‘boulevard’. Why was he named thus! The story goes that his parents were always seen fighting with each other in public, and just when their relatives believed the marriage was heading for a divorce, Tobu’s mom couldn’t hide the love-bag anymore! In time, when he was born, those loving relatives sent his parents a beautiful card with a couplet inside, that went like this:

We wonder how, despite the fury and the fight
A son was born out of love, smiling so bright!

It was his relatives who named him thus! Later the couple confessed that the fight wasn't real, it was just a show they’d put up on purpose to escape jealousy! This type of fake fights is pretty common among couples expecting a child, whose main purpose is to have a safe birth!


To read the note as an extension of the poem.

Friday, April 3, 2015

Falling from the indomitable freshness


Brown days, tired and sleepy,
Destined to fall free
As autumn leaves,
Or a brewing steam that went wrong
Waiting in the cold...
Yet
Days gray, yellow and white
Appear anew, stretching for colours!
It’s a merging, in the midst of things.

For the rising child,
The relentless brush pokes
Needless needles,
Until with softness, the brightness
The freshness of imagenie*
It appears smoky in the shelves.

There is a wind that begs, blooms, flourishes
Still
The most fearsome storm
With the green bomb,
Incapable
Leaves, grasses
Ready to spring, splurge
Falls in the silent woods
With a spread, unnoticed,  
All around,
The earth gets it all!

In the new forest-fresh world
The blind sun is born, crying
Undressed, unwilling, drained
Staging a bed, in time
Prepared to pounce on the pounding
Pumping heart
Faking to be child’s own blending
Mellows,
Yet set to be brown.

The fertile waters chirp through the wind
Soften the ear melt the pride of the crown.



*Imagenie – A word that is left to be interpreted by readers

Thursday, April 2, 2015

Visio infectum

Visio infectum

I have scratches in the mind,
My mind.
Pages blot.
Forms, shapes, impaired in letters;
Halted interactions
Mimic on a shining surface.
Glassy waters, dressed as mirror-pieces
Screech in lines; black,
In blocks of silence,
I was drawing in the world,
My world.
Withdrawn, yet reborn;
Willingness, its helplessness
Despite aphorisms,
In the juicy-leafy semiotics of life


Somewhere in between the mind and the world, life wills for a space