Thursday, March 31, 2011

As the summer walks by-



In the baked nights of a melted April,
we shared a moon together
through the balcony of my heart

and a wind
with the salted waters and the burnished sun touched us
emotions poles apart like ours.

In my hands through your fingers
you drew rains and some love.
How we spent all those nights
quietly, surreptitiously into each other.

And now the Chrysanthemums have faded
and what remains is a dream half cooked.

You wanted a dream,
a dream to live
and I was a burnt log of summer
I held only ashes in my wilted palms.

Still through the left over meandering summer
into the hollow balcony I rummage through
perhaps to find you and rains and some love, I fail

You know
I Still look for the moment
when I let you go.

Sunday, March 27, 2011

Strange Somedays-


Somedays
I lean onto my windows
to find that it’s a bright lit dull evening

Where
the falling breeze and chirping birds
saunter through to home emptying the stash of the shore

And
the portrait that of my windowpane
has nothing left no words of beauty but a quite dim dusk

Somedays
I realize that there's nothing to be written or told
but wilderness and a heart that is left so to live and respire in cold

And
it is then that I meet you over a smudged line called horizon
with the drowning sun and the little whispering shadow of moon

And
slowly around your ears in a circle I whisper
that I need you unlike any other metaphor I can ever create
that I need you for love and otherwise

Wednesday, March 23, 2011

It is not love Dearest!-

1
That strange Bengali lyrical English accent of yours
Which I claimed to have hated, to my friends
But fell in love with, the first time I heard
And literature became the motto of my life and everything else

You even introduced me to Mrs Mukherjee , your wife
And still I knew that it was me always
Because the next day you read out loudly, Garcia Marquez
“Always remember that the most important thing in a good marriage is not happiness, but stability.”
And then looked straight at me

And I know that it is always like that a cliché as they say
That a man who was early middle aged
Talked less
Yet could fill whole lives into few words
When his odd writings were published in dailies here and there
Who could never let go off his stubble as if it was permanent
Who taught literature
Shall be cause of a lot of first loves
And so you were

But then most of them haven’t seen the cliché that is you.
You had the longest fingers I ever saw even by your tall standards.
Long-ish hairs and an ovoid face with a little bald patch easily hidden and you said aloud-
“ I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly, because you tread on my dreams.”
And you were Yeats.

Poetry was almost porn for you as I knew. Like your voice for me.

2
I saw you as a twenty eight year old too, Framed
You still had that five day old beard
And reminded me of Che even Rob-Di-Nero.
It was your college office
And then you left without even letting me know
I wasn’t important enough when I think of it now
And months and years and a life went.
I read your obit in the statesman today
And exactly as only you can do
It had one of your unread poems

“If I could offer my love as the fee
Or even as my heart; my naked plea
But my heart and love even breathe you dear
How can I present you to unjust mockery?

Hold it close it’s the my last recourse
My thoughts my words and all my dreams
I offer them to you these are all I have
Leave me claimed with sane insanity.”

3
Kolkata in late December could be described as marginally hot by your European standards
But it still gave me shivers to see you
And when you passed by me through rows
I could smell that thing you had as perfume it smelled of winter twilight's in Kent or Cantia as you said.
You know I spent my honeymoon in south England
And my husband was flabbergasted at my choice
I read Yeats at times even now
Just when the world gets too much to bear
I do not read much these days
And that day after five years of not seeing me, you did see me but comfortably ignored
I know this too

4
It was early May and I can still see you drenched in rains with a smile
Tall, slender you were a poem alive
You stood by my door
And then I realized that it is a hallucination
That you are gone
That am married have my kids
That it was an infatuation to a man who lived poetry
That summer’s day shall not be Shakespeare anymore to me
That we would’ve never got along (age difference)
And moreover I can never be a mistress
That you did call me three years from Delhi on my birthdays
That you did get the love letter I wrote you in the second year of your DU faculty days
And that you said it is not love dearest
And that afterall you would still believe that today-
It is not love dearest
it is not..

Saturday, March 19, 2011

Lost Philosophy-

Once in a quaint lazy afternoon you told me that you wanted to write a story a story that shall follow no script, no beginnings or even an end. A story which can be read and ended wherever possible. And I laughed at you.
You said we’ve come to accept mediocrity as means of creativity into our world and your laugh is just an example of it. Perhaps I shall not be read, maybe they would not understand my story but I shall pen it. You know why, because I do not confirm to the epidemic averageness that fills our world like ether.

I said hopeless, all the while laughing and then added you’re part of the world spirit -the Geist as Hegel said. You’re no greater than the whole sum you stubborn fool. Now I realize, why should a story follow a script when life does not?

You told me it was not my kohl filled eyes, my aquiline nose or even my seductive yet soothing voice (your words) that made you fall but the fact that I knew my philosophy. You made me laugh.
I said, I still cannot fathom that why am in your arms. You said Weiltgeist, the world spirit sweetheart.

All of them said that I was very beautiful. That my eyes were not eyes and that they compared me to a summer’s day thanks to the Bard of Avon.
And you, it was as if you could see through me. Later you gave me your own theory that excessive beauty made you afraid and that you could never bring yourself to judge a book by its cover. The first time you kissed me was when we talked about 'subjective idealism' of Berkley perhaps the moment I uttered the sentence.

I asked you once why do you value this knowledge so much? And you in your own Bogart-ish style with a burning cigarette and that slow but unnerved voice said that Sophia means wisdom and -phile is lover. You love your wisdom and so do I. How many people care to ask, who am I?
And then to know it read what great men and woman before have said about it. And..

.......................................................................................

The doctor came looked at both of them and said-
Mam I have to feed him now. Both pair of eyes looked at him and she said, Okay I shall leave then.
He just looked on as if he could see through them. And she kissed him and went.

Later when the doctor fed him he looked at the doctor like he knows her and said-
“Was she Helen or Blessed Hildegard of Bingen?"
The doctor laughed and said-
" Yesterday she was Bonolata Sen."
And cleaned the spilled food with an old piece of cloth.

Monday, March 14, 2011

A Midsummer Night's Lost Day-

Am not the fondest of summers
the sun sings much too loudly these days
its symphony of lost moments in fire

The pavements cry
with a wilted sigh
and melt into the moments of a mirage

The evenings are the little children
that annoy and take you back to all lost moments
where smile was the flavor of every air you breathed in

And unknowingly you walk on to the roads
of the old city
where you ran along running buses
and sat beneath mango tress

And I lose the thread of time slowly
how did we let it go?
how did we let us wither?
like the snowflaked caps of a distant land of desires

The snow bled away and the summers stayed
but sometime just sometimes
the sun gets lost
while it rains
a slow hymn
of lost love

dripping and filling life
into a little daisy
called midsummer night’s dreams
far away
far far away

Next Morning-

glimpses of the waking sun
through the mountains of your cleavage, rise
i touch the morning rays
caressing the warmth of perspiring skin
amidst your drooping sighs

Sunday, March 13, 2011

In My Time of Dying-



A lazily laid out Goanese summer slept through
amidst the saltwater sleep inducing breezes
as the eternally awake sun peeped into the black glassed windows
and he jokingly said- "Look at it, the voyeur bloody fire ball."
Mitchell looked outside Nikhil's open and her closed eyes for the first time
feeling strangely uncomfortable as if, as if it really was watching her.
Thinking for the first time of her unabashed half naked body
And smiled-" Thankfully I still have clothes on some of them."
And Nikhil tore open the last remnants of lingerie from Mitchell.

The sun meanwhile outside her windows looked on
it had seen Nikhil waiting for two hours outside the villa
and when everybody went
he thudded at her doors seven times before she opened
all the while knowing who was out there.
The door opened and she slapped him
and he with all the brute force held inside for hours and days now
kissed her and she slapped him and he kissed her and again and again
after four repetitions of this
she finally forced herself on him
for the next twelve minutes they made love
we know this as the music player played "In My Time Of Dying" start to finish
though the time felt way less than the mentioned length but way more exhilarating
mostly because the connotations of the song
and the fact that she was about to be married to Edward

Now he says- " Let us elope. Let us get married."
and she looks at him and smiles, wordlessly says-" It is impossible, you know."
Nikhil thinks of the bespectacled and short but undeniably good looking Edward
who shall exchange vows with her tomorrow
and do whatever he just did now to her
but that would be sanctified wouldn't it.

Nikhil pierces his face into her
tasting the Goa seas in her body
and she on her part thinks
that she shall not see the sunrise tomorrow
and this must, must be painfully alive
sapping the bitterness out of life.

And sun leaves.
In a while Nikhil too will
with a promise to get away from all of it tomorrow
and she shall break another promise tonight.
She knows he will die inside and the sun doth lives on endlessly

Friday, March 4, 2011

Sly Ole’ Son Of a Gun-

Nilotpal is deep into Shrabonti

like the toy that you so wanted to buy as a kid but could not somehow

Nilotpal starts in his mind one, two, three

and only if she will look at me by the count of five, he sighs

unlike any film that he has seen, she never does

Tonight Nilotpal will give up on food again and also his daily peg of single malted scotch

He does that on days he sees her standing in the bus stop

Tonight he will write a half baked poem again and dream of kissing her

like that actor kissed that girl in the movie he saw last Saturday, with tongues and all.

He shall tell her that he is all love if only she will look at him once.

And prima facie he is not fat or a poet but just in love



Shrabonti is down and depressed

his guy is not answering her calls once more

why does love need to be so damn complicated

if only she could get off all her responsibilities

and just swim like she desires at times

if only she would be loved the way she would like to be

if only he would French kiss her and tongue

and at such moments she wants

to go out and sleep with the next guy she meets

some stranger without inhibitions perhaps

perhaps that guy, that guy she occasionally sees on the bus-stop

and now she wonders about the contours of Nilotpal’s face but only momentarily

then realizes it would all be just a facade just a revenge on her guy,

nothing else.



But she knows

Tomorrow she will be far more forthright at the stop

Tomorrow she will look at him and smile a bit

just for the dignity to her own thoughts

Nilotpal is sleeping and in his dreams Shrabonti looks at him.

He wakes up startled and thinks of how he is wasting all his thoughts on a girl

He knows nothing about.

He will now get his life straight.

Shrabonti for her sake shall muddle his life again.



--------------

And far off in another world I hum along-with Ella Fitzgerald-

"It's that ole devil called love again

Gets behind me and keeps giving me that shove again

Putting rain in my eyes

tears in my dreams

and rocks in my heart.


It's that sly old son of a gun again."

And laugh off.