Sunday, November 18, 2012

starbucks-



3 am, 
sugarless coffee
pumpkin spice latte
our hearts are spoons, stirring it
the smoky haze,
this smell mixed into yours
and first sips
the after tastes, like a burnt cigarette

while you talk of
the world, (is an asshole, you say)
I want to travel Europe
Nobokov is underrated
Brecht is overwhelming
wish we were in a jungle
wish we were in seventies
wish we were..
. together

I'll make you an early morning cup
I'll make you a metaphor
and a poem
our lives are rectilinear, like
sex, drugs and Beatles
perhaps indie movies, Jim Jarmusch

I am, me
class of 2013
summa cum laude
and your love.

When the coffee ends,
you can have my soul.

take me

take me as a kind word 
speak of me more often. 

as a poem to whisper 
in the dead of the night 

.
and then 
when you have claimed 
the mountains and oceans 
and the stars and the trees 
take me as your home, 
come back to me every now and then.

To, Gaza-



I have a memory and I live in it
sometimes I am a carpet and I dust myself inside
like the world.
I do not share borders with you for my borders like the rainbow
exists only in the rains and the tear drops
I share verses, sadness and death
the trembling faith of a father with a lost child
spreading around like God

Today, poetry would beg for a ventilator
but will be shut down, for it died with the death of her kids
the colored wings of a butterfly, the moonshine and the smiling child

The windows, the desk, the pen
they crave for poetry, but she would not knock
for feelings are fragile and wishless and words scarce
as life cannot be erased and re-written and memorized.

Sunday, November 4, 2012

live!

slowly, reveal 
look out the window, touch the breeze
and if it rains, let it rain all over you
do not blame the sun, thank it 
caress the leaves, fallen or otherwise
the tears that you wipe, let them flow and dry
feel, this moment right now, yes,
you are alive

make that coffee a little dark 
and live through each sip and gulp it 
and breathe
write a poem that makes you smile and cry
and then say it out to yourself, 
'I love you.'

accept when others say that too and smile a little more this time,
for them

accept that you have made mistakes, would do again
be kind, to yourself, you are not perfect, who asked you to be, anyway
say, 'I love me.', now,
and then feel that breeze on your face again

for you and I are just the guests of space, 
stars 
and eternity
.
and we must live, my love
while we live.

stardusts and skyscrapers. -



We are neither words or pieces of poems. 
Nor, do we live in the water fronts of literature 
our world is a hardened place where guns silence language 
and love lives in the caskets of soda bubbles.

There was a time and a place in the withered island of memory 
where you and I and our friends lived 
where the smell of an approaching winter was home 
and the sonatas of homecoming were sung 
in the palimpsest of beautifully structured words.

Now, lyric and rhymes have abandoned us 
and we live in the cemetery of reality, 
where no matter how much we try 
we will not metamorphose into our favorite poems. 
Instead, we will slowly languish away 
in the yellow frayed agony of life.

But to tell you all of it, there is an archipelago
where silent conversations, silken touches are guarded as a child
and I have kept a handful of clouds and a prairie of rains
with a jar full of prose still live
where amidst all kinds of ruins our secret is safe.

So, hold onto my arms and stay with me 
for perhaps on some starry night, if we welt our souls deep enough,
then beyond the valley of lies and deceits
unseen and unheard, the slow moving breeze of poetry, 
would still flicker, like tiny stardust in our eyes.

Saturday, October 20, 2012

Ruiya'r maajhe-



ora je bodo saheb'er lokera ora bole aishe,
na ruiya to Pakistan 
tomra na, 
kintu aamar baba, taar baba shobai to ruiya'e joliya moreche
oder ruiya roilo naa ki
aami to boi khata podi ni, aami ekti khepa pass class chaar
ora je bole na chadte hobe
aamiyo uthe shei ondhakre chole dilam
gram pichone shudhu maati dekha jaye
pukur aamar choto belar chotto kada jol hoye jaaye
aami choliya jaai matha nichu, ghad nichu
bidhoba maa'er chokher jol, aamar pet'e golay
eyi poth kata mati, eyi jirno bhanga shorir niye
aami desh chede deshe'e jaai

maajh rassta'e maa bole aamaye chadiya de
aami jete parum na-
budo maa, mora baap'er bhanga choshma niya
bot gaacher tolaye boshiya jaye, jaamu na jete parum na bole,
bole notun deshe chaai homu na, tor baap'e ki bolum
tomar maati faillaiyaa eshechi, naa jamu na
bhanga baba'er purano choshma, aamar maa, aami
gacher tola'y
aare ek ek kore lokera hete jaye,
notun deshe hete jaye.

Translation-(In the middle of Ruiya)

They are men of the bada sahab
they say 'Ruiya' is now Pakistan
it is not yours
But my father and his father have their ashes spread here
would Ruiya not be theirs
Never have I read a book, just passed fourth class somehow
when they say you have to leave
I start walking,
walking in the darkness
and beyond my village is just a remnant of soil
and the pond of my child hood is a mud puddle
and I walk head bowed and neck tied
my widow mother has tears in her eyes
and they gurgle inside my stomach and the whole being
this road of muds and stones and this body of broken bones
I walk beyond the country,
I walk to the country

My mother stops me midway, she says let me not go
let me not walk anymore
old woman holding tightly the old broken glasses of my father,
squats underneath the banyan, no I cannot walk anymore, I am too feeble
I cannot be ashed in the new land, your father how would I face him
what will I tell him, I abandoned his ancestors soil, left it uncared for
and the broken glasses of my old man, my mother and me
sit in the shades of this tree
and one by one all people walk by
to the new country they walk by.

...

I write for a living and I know my part. Writers are essentially actors who play in their minds all the roles that they can create. I have learned to unlearn memories or atleast try my hands at pretending that I do not have them anymore. Sometimes though memory like a paper cut unintentionally sticks to you and the paper cut turns into a dagger. 

Sadness and its memoirs then fill you with the strange feeling of a dying evening. And the scarce happy memories I have makes me wonder why things happened the way they did. It is strange that the evolving paper cut-dagger of memories would always make you disappointed no matter what the details of the story are, they are never happily into ever afters.
.....................................................................

How we underestimate our specialties to be a part of the milieu. All men and woman who have lived have lived the story of youth and its loss and a constant war of redemption for the past glory which never was. We live in yearnings all the time and this constant feeling of not being there, where we want ourselves to be. 

Emotions are just dishonest, when a sad man is happy tomorrow or a happy one is sad, isn't he disrespectful to his past self. Hence our stories of bravery and romance and Shakespearean tragedies are all bogus. 
After all the greatest heroes fell through the alleyway of emotions they surely had experienced fear, sadness, slothfulness, lust, anger and hatred. Tomorrow if they talk about my stories in closed quarters, I want them to say there was a man born in Bishnupur, of east-bengali refugee parents, who wrote. 
Not good, not bad just that.

I hate stories that end for in the end it is either happy or sad that traces the last few foot steps of a story. I want my stories to float, a human face is too small to be happy and sad at the same time. Now, how sad that is.

Calendula layers-



You told me
your heart was broken too
that you can paint your story 
in a few powerful strokes
for the details matter, no more.

You said, there was a fire that incinerated 
your emotions leaving you to bleed
that I can have your body
never your soul

That you are a metaphorical sun-kissed sandpit, 
and what is humane in you is lying naked here
and you no more write
as screams are neither prose nor poetry

.
I tried looking at you
as the girl with a thousand blisters
and all I could see, 
were
your cranberry lips
and silent eyes, 
pleading
to be made love to
even more.

Saturday, September 22, 2012

2306



Lyon 

Opu sits alone in a bar at westbury.
He thinks of Shubhomita's prolonged battles with cancer and orders a drink.
He is yet to go to work even after two weeks.
And somewhere in his mind a voice still says,
"Opu, kedo na."(Do not cry.)

But he would, Shubhomita.

There is something endearing in your absence.
In your waiting I live a thousand lives
and in your hopes I die a million times.

Bombay

Arghya is down on Succharita right now.
He lives amidst sore kissed and bruised skins.
He has read Nabokov and sometimes in Succharita he can see a grown up Lolita.
There is no love that sighs in the contours of this passion
what resides is the concrete structure of an urban loneliness
and a forest of foreplays that breathes in their minds.

Succharita knows Arghya is flawed and probably does not lover her.
But in all her thirty five years of existence no one absolutely no one saw her that way
and so she would let him indulge.
Because she is a voyeur of her own life and tonight she would just be loved.

And Arghya takes a bite of the gossamer skin, as now he goes on top.

Calcutta

Binod is walking down the stairs of his thirteen floor office space.
He can feel the silent screams of sunrays falling at him.
He can listen to people talking and TV sounds and all the city horns blare at him.
But right now at this moment his heart is with Trishna,
he is back in 1998 walking alongside her from the football ground.
There is no beginning there never was and he lives in days
and he comes home in hope that he would find her.
Until he realizes she left him
for HIM.

London

Sayan, writes long monologues.
He sips coffee and stays inside his Lymington street home in London.
He knows she never knew that he learnt French just to impress her
that he wore those stripped jeans to make her love him
and wrote seventy nine poems in three languages just for her
but of course he never gave her those
and she had no idea who gifted her Anna Karenina on her nineteenth birthday by post
And she is alone and a spinster living in Bishnupur.
But then,
she never knew.
And he fantasizes about her.

Somewhere:

Shreetama who learned to walk two months before Sukanto did.
Read Divine Comedy an year before.
Drove a car almost six months early.
Saw 'Before Sunrise' Two days before Sukanto and Casablanca two years.
Has also moved on in her life before him
and Sukanto hopes he will follow soon.

An unknown couple is making out inside a shanty lodge in lower east manhattan.
And breaking up in Rippon st. Calcutta.
And having a baby in Spandau, Berlin.

People are happy, sad, broke, wild, hurt, ecstatic
Living and dying right here at this moment.

And I,
I just miss you.

Land of talking poetry-



In the long rantings of my brooding pen
I have found that poems never answer 
but they groan, ache and talk 
whatever is left unspoken by them 
can hold the vastness of pacific, 
that their metaphors are nothing 
but lost lovers who speak in thoughts 
fulfilling themselves in illusions 
and that what poetry asks, must be answered
and fullstop them to an end.

.
We talk like old friends
(which we are)
and I promise them their lives
while walking to a synagogue 
of unknown distances.

---

So, 
If I could 
I would travel to a place as far as carpatus
where words have home and the doors they are bookmarked
where forgetfullness is permitted and I am naive 
a place, where the sky rains into prayers; where wishes resign to end 
and clouds are a prophetic darwish to tell you what you need. 

There, perhaps
I would know how your name on my lips 
leaves me with the sweetness of baklava.

How your skin is filled with the softness of a breeze 
yet the warmth of a sun.

And just how your eyes can hold 
all the powers of the galaxies and stars 
and days and nights
and me.