Wednesday, January 25, 2012

Year Book

Sayantan Roy
115, Welbourne Street

I have looked at this photograph
Twenty two times in thirty one minutes
Your face and then back to his
Your childish wide grin
his unbearable good looks
Your body tilted towards him,
face out of focus yet facing the lens

I saw you in that photograph with Adam
You looked blissful like Aparna Sen
in the Monsoon girl pic
And all your friends and everybody was there
and you sat in a circle with all
yet you two look cut out of it

I wonder how happy does he make you
To be truthful I have red eyes
But I guess am just tired

The emotion that yearns for you
never sinks in,
it floats

like my limpid verse
staggering to a hault
in the whirlwind of a heartache

So do his fingers run through your hair?
they must
and has he yet noticed
the still perspiration dabs around your neck
or your love for all things bronze
and hard cover
that sometimes you eat a lot of cheese
just for the heck of it
that you sketch beautiful but haunted women
in the last pages of your notebook
that you taste like an alphonso
and kiss like an adolescent
your voice is the mirror to your mind
that you have the tiniest set of feet and palms
never did you read, that one Tolstoy
your eyebrows have a life of their own
that Colombian coffee beans, exists
that you are all my poetries
that you are just you
and something more

In the slow embers and patina of mists
everything shall hide itself out
and all my thoughts of you
shall die a slow desirable euthanasia
I shall again write meaningful poems
with no undercurrents
and that never more
shall you find me absent minded
moving my right feet back and forth
and quoting out of breath
and writing

etc.. etc.. etc..

Saturday, January 21, 2012


the sky stares like an empty canvass
waiting for your palms to fill them
with colors and lights
and in this drawingboard of a moment
I form prose that melt softly
into the fish shape of your eyes
midst the river song of my words

but mostly.
in my memories of you
there lies
just a moment
of a hazy winter morning
where words fall
with a synchronous thud
and an orphaned dotted sky

on which sometimes
a strangely silent Trochilidae flies by
in the distant horizon

and then,
my verse of a moment dances
words drip as if tropical rains in Amazon
metaphors breeze by like Savanna winds
like the temple lit holy evenings
of an iridescent Varanasi
in an oft used palette, a poem is conceived
that has you name, your eyes
and you standing by me.

in my memories of you
there lies a moment
of a hazy winter morning
where you stay besides me
drawing ripples on the waters of Ganges,
on the moment,
and on me.

Friday, January 20, 2012

‎39, Presidency University-

He sleep-walks around Lyon sometimes on evenings
sometimes taking photographs
mostly like a well groomed nomad
he strums words on pages
relatively pretentious
and overwhelmingly unambitious.
He writes because he still lives
It is not sad, dull, gory, happy
it just is
And he writes

Sayantan, Untitled-
(a)And what if we have a daughter.
How would she grow upto be.
I believe she would have your eyes and my eye brows.
Like the things you are, mostly
with a gray hue of me.

...That day just outside that small coffee-hut
I saw this young french brunette girl thirteen.

She took twelve seconds to cross the street, exactly that
because I saw her reflection on my watch
for the first time, as I saw her.
Exactly like you
I usually would be inside the bookstore
across the road by then
but you would measure and walk.
Just like her
this unknown French kid...

(b)And I think about the three of us
looking curiously outside the windows
on a rainy afternoon
with the falling waters
making strange patterns
on its transparent doors
I would be assured of her intelligence
if we could gaze on like this.

Moreover your eyes can scan poetry can't they
even in the most dilapidated of foundations
and what is rains-
but uncovering the raw beauty
that this old-old planet holds.
You've taught me that
ah! she would just know.

(c)and when she gets a boyfriend
would she look for me in him
or a man-ed version of you
who is much well read, unchaotic
and basically better.

She would be eager to read the books
I have read
because you always are aren't you.
You read Tolstoy
could you finally complete Karenina.

And once more my life would reek of Blyton's,
Carroll's and likes.

To live in this unreal panorama of a real life
he has wizened out his soul.
Lucid mornings,
clearer yet snowy noons and a lot of meanderings
is what it takes.

Inside he still reads Neruda to let him sleep.
And resides in the Baker Street apartment
with the master and the friend
and the Hounds of Baskervilles to just think of her and yet not.
And sometimes just sometimes
by sheer personal absent mindedness
puts up his address as
-39, Presidency University
Pyari Sarkar Street, Bow Bazaa

Sunday, January 8, 2012

If on a winter’s night a traveler - I be-

*Pre Script*-

As I write tonight I see a lamp shade a writing table and a ceiling
I see the materials that define me and I want to rebel
I want to stand against the non-living
I want to forget conventions and rules
I want to free myself

I see Jarsmusch laughing along a camera
Berolt Brecht creating a play inside another
and Calvino saying come lets puzzle words and ways


If Sayantan would ever remove his minus two spectacles
and just look at my eyes while talking of Neruda
If he would ask me about Bolivian diaries
If he would perhaps deepen his voice
and call my name with the'a' sounding as 'o'
If he would ever talk to me
like he talks to the nine year old Nando from the tea stall
If he would ever tease me on my small nose
If he would ever graze me by and smile

I would tell him
that it’s not just Socialism or Caucasian Chalk Circle
connecting us
its love too.
If he would..


Sayantan meanders through my story
as floating leaf on a slow summer water bed.

He has no identity

Hardly a name

And a faint scent of life.

Yet he gives meaning to Tanima and all paraphernalia’s.

Tanima shall grow in my story
the woman who shall render to all your poetic fetishes

she will be your Bonolata Sen

or Helen of troy

or Nefertiti

or Labanya

as you wish.

As of now
she is a character in all of Sayantan's verses.
Sayantan is..
Sayantan is Calvino's traveler


If I look at her while reciting 'If you forget me'
I shall never forget her
If ever I ask her of Guevara
I would be lost in her idealism
If I pronounce her name in bangla
she would remind me too much of Maa
If I ever touch her
I shall not let her go
When she gets to know that my smiles at Nando
are when I want her to see me
She shall probably love me

And then I know
like Brechtian's characters
we shall grow in love more than ourselves


I am a passing moment
or a piece of
a broken memory
left on the wayside
and there is no sound
just a chance morning shower
like the day is yet to be
and the night is too afraid of the dark

am a candid emotion

I just put words besides each other
and decorate them
making void a beauty
I foreplay verses
going round about the same circle
I create nothingness
in my hollows am a genius

And I do not idolize standards
disfiguring reality
I paint
an essential life

Come with me
and we shall be lost
and forgotten
and happy


Sayantan walks back and forth along his home at Ekdalia Street
The brewing breeze shall make it rain
and every drop shall make a sound on his heart
He needs to be loved tonight

He is a nomad jostling through his and Tanima's life

He is a seminal thought in my mind
and a perceptible reality in Tanima's

He is a sketch of all my impossibilities

He is my grown up Holden Caulfield

He is the boy next door
and yet a Shakespearean tragedy

He is my peeping tom to the world

And even after all that love he has for Tanima
we know he shall just take it slowly

Thus there's no reason in it,
it just is