Friday, June 29, 2012

How I write-

And for all I know of the tragedy of a well crafted poem,
of the disheveled edges of words and sentences.
Whatever lives within me like an old tree filled of metaphors,
of longings.
Where failures lure me like the mariner's albatross.

I write again
In the shades of an old afternoon,
a crumpled prose resting in the gentle eyes of the beholder
opening in the dense green of a rainforest
and closing with an ocean
where shores meet.
And I have a home

Tuesday, June 26, 2012

The Trans-Atlantic closeness


You were reciting Neruda to me
'If you forget me',
I barely registered the words
And you said,
"My voice, is it that sexy?"
It was.

I told you
When you shave I can see
Just beneath your lower lip-left side a small cut, a birth mark
And you smiled at me, as if no one ever told you that.
That when you eat your khichudi with poshto, I laugh
And you kiss me like an adolescent.
When you gift me 'Karenina' for its societal philosophical impacts
and I make you watch "A streetcar named desire."
You talk me through "Abbey Road" by The Beatles as you would call it
and I would just ogle at your face.

And after indefinite cups of tea and salted biscuits
and talks that linger from Karl to Groucho.
You tell me that it will just be two years in Boston,
and smile
and sing "Leaving on a ..' While I cry.

When you tell me that you sleep with your computer on
and our picture in it, that without it sleep would not be.
That everytime you shave you touch that small clean cut as if it is me.
That you still eat Khichudi but no one knows how to make a Poshto here.
And that our stolen kisses would ordinarily last a lifetime.

You have seen all movies by Kazan and Vronsky is admirable
That the only time you were this happy was when you heard ‘The Beatles’ (as you’d call them) for the first time.

As I laugh amidst all the Trans-Atlantic disturbances
For, I still cry after.

I choose not to breakdown the verses that I write
And let them live there own life
the sadness it is just easier to word
Than to say it out aloud.

Live as if the ordinariness is necessary to sustain.
That the sun never sets in my world and vice-versa
I wish for a small cut just beneath my lower lip
Never eat any poshto or its variant.
Want to be looked by no one else so I keep my hair short.
Smell the last few drops of your leftover after-shave.

Just so you know,
That Two hundred and fifty two days and seven hours and almost thirty minutes later
When you are walking through the immigration lines of Calcutta International and see me
You will find me just the way you left.

..Though on second thoughts
Plus two Kilos
Reading Marquez not Leo and some Pediatric Journals
Versed with Neruda and ‘The Beatles’
Yours, Just a bit more

Friday, June 15, 2012

novikov metamorphosis and wuthering moments-

(the immortal)

But your eyes had tears much before I
spoke a word.
And there was this gargantuan smile
that stretched the outer limits
of the horizon of your face.
Was it all my fiction?

My writes always have this huge literary metaphorical baggage
and in the seeming moment of that inopportune he had become
My own Hamlet and Othello and Devdas.
She called him Heathcliff preferably.
We call him Sayantan.

Oh this is ridiculous but
He saw the dotted red left over Aalta marks of her newlywed feet
out of that old rippon street home of theirs.
That was a dying evening
and a temple was playing something barely audible but boastfully devotional
that he could just think of as blasphemy to his own senses.
And the undeniably pain that was his
and the unending inspiration.


I would write you into literature
you would be like that young woman sitting on the railway platform
while it is snowing and the rail coach is moving ahead
and the snow lets me see half of your face
and your bright eyes.
The milk sky with the refurbished sense of verbs would rain just then
and while you squeeze yourself into the leftover dryness
My eyes and the fingers weave poetry.

Oh how your pain craves my poetry and the wintery solitude of your lonely existence
makes for words never read. I am your writer, your chronicler like
Goya and his Maja.
And my own Catherine Earnshaw.

And after that my licentious question
But would you sleep with me?

I am the beginning of many
Think of me as the man who gave you, self.
And some literary values on the way.


He walked around Esplande and the bankrupt corners of tolleygunge
waiting for his life to change with a flash of light
that she was a figment of the fiction he always wanted to write .

He had kissed her swollen lips of some vitamin deficient disease once
just to tell her that he loved her
and that some day during Dr. Dastidar's rambunctious class
he had written an elegy to the exhaled breath of her lips
he could be wondrously literary with her.
You are my El-Dorado and the Nude Maja of Goya,
but I haven't seen it,
then do.

I cannot waste my literary golden metaphors on your ignorance.


That early Calcutta morning rain
where He walked over the dhakuria lanes
and out of the dust and the turbid mud
he created those Bordeaux poetries
and then she would caress him.
But now you would not
and out of the oceanic absence of your being
I shall create dim lit haikus
and storming verses
that you would never read.
Your absentia would be my greatest write,
just so you know.


Have you read Kafka he was once asked
He did.
More so he had written Kafka
the way seemingly impossible things occur
juxtaposing improbable to living
to address something that is so true
to the falling waterfalls of life-
like a man metamorphosing into a bug
like his woman-like poems
like she marrying the someone else, his forever Linton