Monday, November 29, 2010

Two Days Later-

He is in a dilapidated lodge in Allahabad now
“What is the name of the lodge.” He thinks
But he can’t
He just imagines Dibendu making love to her
And ejaculates-A scream

Dibendu is reading his letter meant for Mrinalini
And crying
He posts every poem he writes and posts at Mrinu’s address
This is his revenge he believes
“You can abandon me but can never your words.” She said.

He never thinks of going back to that place
A city that turned into a woman, eventually
Pair of eyes penetrates him through the balcony of 34 Rippon Street
And the rains, a perfect cliché.
But unlike all clichés he never did look back
If he did he would’ve known that she fell unconscious
He can still at nights listen to falling tears. The sound overpowers
Doctor has given him medicines for his insomnia

Sound of tears, a metaphor.
Two day after that day
Sounds of shahnai and Aguner Poroshmoni song
Pierced through that place he believes
But he’s wrong
Time stood still on Rippon Street
Two days after never came.

At certain moments he forgets his route back to Kolkata
This is his phobia these days
And he pens a poem
Tears apart the pages
And he can remember his way back as clear as a day
“You love your poems more than me.” She said

He has written and tore two poems a day
Tomorrow he shall move southwards.
And he plays Love by Lennon in his I-Pod.

Wednesday, November 17, 2010

Let it flow

Life flows-



Like winters underneath the quilts

legs stretched and thoughts too,

with the vanilla smell of the newly washed covers and home.

Morning sun through your windows

drenching the face,

coffee and the newspaper

to watch through the balcony.

And to walk the greens in the evenings

through leaves-

dead yellow and brown

with strange unexplained smell

and stranger sounds resonating somewhere far

of what you shall never know.

Now only those leaves seem alive.

But winters go, you leave home.



The poem that you wrote

with each words written and rewritten

and then read aloud

to make it sound perfect

but torn

not to let anybody else see you in them

to hide yourself

in all those myriad personalities

you weave for yourself and you shall be.



Like the words that once filled life

names that were not true and yet were

like people who gave it to you

saccharined and all

inducing smiles.

But those words

ran to be heard by someone

you would never know and still envy.



Some dreams.

felt but forgotten

seen and touched

with lingered smiles

concatenating truth and a lot of fiction

that you think of years down the line

but dreams of just that night

mortal bright.



And it shall walk away too,

like the tiny fragments of moments

that zip pass

no matter

what thread you tie

to pull them back

to stick to

to grow into you

it shall .



Life flows, does it not.

Love is just a word afterall.

Monday, November 15, 2010

From Journals Incognito

The fan makes creaking sounds with the nuts and bolts of the bed in unison,
He lies on one to gaze into the other undisputed
The slow hums from the next room are incoherent voices in television
A strange music is invented.

Trains and buses letting him in three towns in ten day.
Town to town into unknown locales, he sprawls.
Places that were names come with life and with each come a prosaic word play.
As if the hovel filled country is some heaven sent virgin. He has caressed them all
..You are a male chauvinist she said then.

Carving landscape into words to put to papers.
Eating cartographic details
He swallows unpalatable spices and flavors.

The music goes on, he smiles looking onto the rotating instrument ‘Mozartize’ itself.
He has acquired this new fetish for coining words,
Words whose meanings shall be held just by his self.
Like his life which he has cleaved onto, with every footstep that can come to him murdered.

And he smiles
He has won over time
He has lost over his past
He has written a new diary entry last night
A poem is undressed.
He is making love to the town.
He shall grab a bus tonight, for a new unnamed.

Only if she knew he was..