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,
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
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