A forgotten dove

Light

with my wings

winsome and white

harbinger of peace

with love

I fly above

like a forgotten dove

chirping, I soar

I rise above countries

all boundaries, in sight no more

underneath I see

lovely lands

warm waters

​​​​​​​mighty mountains

beckoning me

beautiful people

waving at me

wanting me to come down

they are singing

enough, we have had enough

to each other

we have been more

than cruel and tough

come down come down

we’d not cage you anymore

you will live in our work, in our chore

come down come down

from north to south

west to east

your seat

is our crown

come down come down

Waves of travelling interpretations

A couple. On their honeymoon.

Holding, waving hands.

A man. Married for twenty-five years.

Happy family. Daughter. Pet.

Now alone. On his own.

Waving at times passed.

Old couple. In their nineties.

Holding hands.

Waving through the times.

They are all at the beach.

Watching and listening to the waves.

It is nine. Time for supper.

And then, to go to bed.

Tomorrow they will leave the place.

A call

A sudden call

seems to be heard,

from beyond the cracking wall.

A decade of stories

from failings, miseries

full of holes, falls

has been built

written off, learnt.

Now

the being

is beginning to rise

suddenly ears comforting the eyes

if I jump off

a ten-storied building

I know

my wings will not let me die

I am prepared to fly.

My nest

from where I began my journey

is perhaps calling me

to carry on

with the unfinished text

I am getting ready

as it were, to sing

to take off with the lost identity

and flutter the rest

of the times left, a-borning*!

*a-borning – wishing of new hope; a colloquialism. The word I learnt from a well-known poet from England, Herb Bryce. I wish he reads it!

Another ladder

Ladder
made of steel or bamboo
singing thousand songs
of lost labor
in each step
failing stories

but you climbed up
we succumbed

but aren’t we now
your support

you are a bestseller book
your hurdles are sung
and read
because you made it
till the end

yet you see
the ladder is leaning
against something
a wall, or a tree
or tied up with a rope
firmly, tightly
your position at the top
swinging, dwindling

if ever you fall
we are prepared
to hold you in our arms
just as we were
when you were growing

we are survivors
we have survived, despite you
not because of you

but no pen has moved
for us
we remain your buyers.

What if the ladder
that is so deep in the mind
didn’t have to lean
what if it stood straight
secure, unafraid
untied, unabated
what if with a little help from you
the steps could sing a different song and woo
we could also go up as high
founded on the ground, the ladder too
wouldn't tilt, could upright touch the sky

How mature people talk

I am fifty-four now

I can write my lines

go for a long morning walk

but I still do not know how

mature people talk!

All the time, they are serious and grim 

their tension in the crown alone shines

whether on the staircase or in the lift

going to work, or workout at the gym

they do smile, but are always prepared for the rift.

At conferences, seminars or discussions

they need to win with what they opine

I feel like hugging them warm and tight

with the little of child-like gumption

so they enjoy the moments, without meaningless fights.

I see them hiding behind the words

somber, they know they are not fine

their feelings bleed a thousand tears

would never listen, concur in their juvenile world

die delinquent deaths in imaginative fears.

When I was a sophomore

I was much the same, outdated infantine*

was direct, blunt; could never know

how to work smart and talk more

to mind my Ps and Qs, and win the show.

I am sure when I will be ninety-four

I will ponder over a glass of wine

how grownups cleverly converse, conquer and rock

I am sure I’d be shocked thinking of the yore

I’d wonder still, how mature people talk!

Note: infantine* - archaic word meaning infantile 

Winning is losing

It sets you at the helm of things

in time

you become

alone

insecure island

without a hand

holding your crown

and your image

blinds your eyes

deafens your ears

as an artist, or a player

you lookout to topple your peers

you have to be there

by hook or by crook

touchy words

you blow your own trumpet

​​​​​​​kind phrases

with no kindness in heart

you have practised the art

as an industrialist

your forehead bursts

layoff, other hurtful acts start

corruption plagues the air

so you could be there
have the last word

as a country in the world

you dollarize

to secure

your rank and file

you forbid lands to be ploughed

you don’t let others live

for you need to be at the top

your position you believe

but slowly you lose

the ability to be

with others

hand in hand, ah no

you must have your say they should know

being ahead

burdens your head

slowly you lose

you get into recluse

you outstand as a winner

as a big brother of things

but you are singled out

in time

you become a loser
little under the weather

defocus

from the circus

the frog is boiling

rats are dying

let the world and the sky win

our roof and the ground

will be secure and sound

Influenced by Peter Senge’s thought, ‘faster is slower’. If you went out of the box and gave it a thought, it could destroy all wars, physical and psychological. It makes business sense to be in the market of things than be out, or outstand as the Big Bro. Please come out with some new strategies my friends. These age-old mindsets are killing us day in and day out, it is an open secret in an open page.

Piano-writing

I am piano-writing
my fingers
agile, numb, nimble
at different times
caressing the key-board
do re me
in many combinations
planting thoughts
on the patient page
rhyming with time
timing with rhyme
this moment I am on the cliff
and in seconds
I see myself in deep sea
experiences expressed
I desperately want them to stay

but they are going away
like the beautiful snake
pious teeth people call poisonous
leaving, forever leaving
flowing like the dews and the rains
hissing the mystery
missing the history
one by one
all at once
crowded, glowing
wanting to tell the stories
spaced in truth
lighting the fire
fighting the liar

I am a doer
I will never give up
I told the stars
mountains and rivers
listened with care

writing is my prayer
in whatever forms and norms
without a piano in sight
it is vivid in my mind
tapping
​​​​​​​my fingers
agile, numb, nimble
weaving the words
tales of my worlds
toning the notes
noting the tones
all seven of them
and more
again and again

You will need some more time

A permanent lie
we call firmament, or sky.
Stalking its bounty, everlasting luxuriance
it falls in love
with the earth
woos, plays uxorious
obliges her with light
from the stars
to hide his ‘nothing’ scar
but alas, remains peripheral;
desperate, joins hands with
the trickster horizon
liars are never allowed inside
the stage
beating, breeding life
moment by moment.

How horrible is this perception
a selective oversight?
Way of looking at the truth
when did it hold away
the color of its presence
or conceal its being
in the nothingness
both
equally open pages
in all fairness
completing the whole.

Free from phony image
‘nothing’ hangs above
stars in it adorn day and night
luminous, light
embracing his darling
from its corners
she, in her turn
responds, bubbles
the lovers, not taciturn
gifting clouds and rains
till their sublime lust
lasts without ends
partners, in presence
with patience
making love
in their passionate zone.

Wait.
You’ll need some more time
for making them, your own.

Be a woman

Be a woman

When I said that

my friends laughed

some of them, women

be a man

my ears were trained thus

what does it mean

I asked myself

strength, power, confidence

with which

you protect or kill women

you marry or molest women

you work and relegate women

in broad daylight

in my friend’s family

a zamindar

it was being man

to throw a course which

his spouse cooked for him

in front of everyone

and accept the one his mother

brought

mother was endlessly happy

so was this machine, everyone

what you should do

how you should be

where you should go

when you should come

Wait… now I understand

what is to be a man

a matter of pride

nothing to hide

free from shame

untouched, free from blame

Be a man? Then?

When I said that

my friends laughed

some of them, women

my inner voice screeched

unheard, unjudged

​​​​​​​untouched, unsung
be a woman

পূজোর হাতছানি

পূজোর হাতছানি

সাদা ভাসা মেঘ হেঁসে হেঁসে আজ

সবাইকে শুধু দিনে দুপুরেতে

হাতছানি দিয়ে ডাকছে

পালকের মত সাদা কাশফুল

শরতের সুরে দুলে দুলে তাই

হাততালি দিয়ে নাচছে।

পূজোর নতুন গানগুলি সব

গানে-সুরে-তালে সাজছে

পূজাসংখ্যার কত না গল্প

তৈরী হ’চ্ছে অল্প অল্প

প্যান্ডেল গুলি খটাখট ক’রে

চেনা আওয়াজেতে মনপ্রাণ ভ’রে

মনরম হ’য়ে উঠছে।

হ’য়ে গেছে শুরু মূর্তী বানানো

ম’ ম’ করছে মাটির গন্ধ

মা, মা ব’লে কুমোরবৃন্দ

নবনব সাজে ঢাল তরবারে

গড়ছে দূর্গা সপরিবারে

সাথে চিরসাথি বাহনো।

ঝলমলে সব জামাকাপড়েরা

স্টলে, মলে দেখ ঝুলছে

হকারেরা হাঁক পাড়ছে জবর

কেনাকাটি শুধু চলছে

আশা ভরা চোখ একই ভাষা কথা

জ্বলজ্বল ক'রে বলছে

এই তো পূজো এসে গেল ভাই

এই তো পূজো আসছে।

জিভে জল আনা সুস্বাদু পদ

মনের মধ্যে ক’রে কলরব

গুনগুন দিন গুনছে।

চারিদিকে শুধু এস, এস রব

বাতাসেতে শোনা যাচ্ছে

বাঙালির এই মহা উৎসব

সবারি আপন হ’চ্ছে।

আনন্দে তাই সুনীল আকাশ

মিলনেরই কথা বলছে।

পালকের মত সাদা কাশফুল

শরতের সুরে দুলে দুলে আজ

হাততালি দিয়ে নাচছে

সাদা ভাসা মেঘ হেঁসে হেঁসে তাই

সবাইকে শুধু দিনে দুপুরেতে
হাতছানি দিয়ে ডাকছে।