Tuesday, February 9, 2016

from Kashmir,

A friend of mine
coming back from Kashmir,
thought to narrate the story of a poet,
who was born there and there bred,
who had seen the guns and the bayonets
from his attic where he hid
to help himself and others bid
farewell to noises of rattling steel,

there as he told, he read Anne Frank,
there as he told, he drew petals on plank
of wood, dried by the sun which rose,
there, as he told, he his God chose,
drew his garden of Hope,
and declared if there was something to cherish,
it was only his Love for those who had perished,
and that gave his garden all the moisture,
and that gave his garden all the flowers,
and when the buds bloomed,
he wrote he had been at their hearts.

Monday, February 8, 2016

for a bud,

once he spoke of his story,
an unfinished one,
it got a song of its own,
a song so full of pathos
that it could make a dove even
to seat for a while by his side,
and to weep for him,

it had a song of unmitigated suffering,
and the dove,
being drenched by his forbidden tears
wept too,

and that weeping,
being stored in oyester shells,
turned into pearls,
for that weeping
was straight from heart,
no glycerine,
no makeup.

Sunday, February 7, 2016

a mere graffiti, Che

As I stood infront of the huge graffiti,

I thought of him,
and a poem,
a Sunil Ganguly,

'your death makes me guilty'
it said,
and it also said how we are getting away,
getting really
a w a y,

and then some would say,
It sounds like a cat,

and then some would say
where we have left our mats,

but then,
there was only one Che,

and only one Sunil.

(the picture attached is a graffiti pasted in the Bolivian Pavilion, Kolkata International Book Fair,2016)

Siberian Crane

Every year when the winter wanes
she comes to me, a snowy Crane,
she tells me how far has she flown,
from Siberia, straight to my town,
in her wings she carries shiny flakes
of poems written by her owner, a lake;

Every year when the winter wanes
she comes to me, a snowy Crane,
she tells me what she has done all those days,
how she has brought twigs to build her lays,
where from she's got that beauty of a mind,
how she for warmth longed and pined,

Every year when the winter wanes,
I find by my window a beauty of a Crane,
she tells me so many stories of her flight,
how she flew by the days and the nights,
how she got kissed by the sun's first rays,
how the cloud fairies kept her amazed,

Every year when the winter is about to go
and the spring is just to begin her show,
I think I find another reason to write
for that bird, her journeys, her visions and sights.

song for a traveler

only it was the other day
met a traveler from far away
he said he had walked a thousand miles
he said he thought of planting smiles
amidst the ruins of Mohenjodaro,
he said he saw twittering sparrows
he said he saw sanguine Palestine,
he said he uprooted covert landmines,
he claimed he found beauty like that truth
which in corn fields once sang one Ruth,

then he talked of that kind of Love
that could be found in the quiet of a cove,
he said he lazed by the trees and the sands
he said he found greenery in bloodsoaked lands,

it was only the other day
met a traveler from far away.

Tuesday, January 5, 2016

New Year's Eve

New year's Eve has come again

like it had come to my lane

every year with its beauty and grace

New year's Eve is another dress,

the chill in the air is like a song

it sings for me only happiness

yes, I know there's sadness around

but how can I forget Your bless?

it was You who told me soft

life is just a choice one makes

and now that I have chosen to write

make me wear Your snowy flakes,

I would be then that grand old man

and would sing a song for you

you would sit beside the fireplace

and tell me your worldly view,

how you struggled with your life

how it hurt when you lost your way

how once you thought of taking a dive

into the dark , from a long long quay,

then you would tell me about your love

Love that shone like a star lit sky

and you would tell me how with doves

you chose to bid your nights goodbye,

I would then talk about mine,

a traveler with only the wish to write

I would tell you how Auld Lang Syne 

gave me oft those fanciful flights,

I would sing for you and all

I would sing the New Year's Eve

you would say then 'we are blessed'

and I would say 'come, let's live'.

Tuesday, November 24, 2015

vignettes of winter

winter has its own vignettes,
pickle jars and pigeons on terrace,

badminton courts, racquets,
pullovers, quilts and jackets,

cartwheels, bakery, yeast,
people having a grand feast,

son et luminere, Dominique,
festival of flicks, bearded critic,

fairs, handloom and crafts,
Samuel Beckett and Jean Paul Sarte,

cakes, toffees, regatta, jazz,
a session of poetry, Octavio Paz,

conclaves, picnics, Jacobean lit,
misty mornings, sparrows on streets,

dews on glasses, on lawns, windshields,
mild nip in the air and lemon peels,

freckled skin, dry and withered leaves,
moisturizers and northern breeze.

Saturday, November 21, 2015

literary beings,

if you implore I can talk
not of that kind of love,
where we would become streets and lanes,
crossing each other like a tedious argument,
instead let me recite that love song
where tears of human race belong,
and human happiness too -
in finding Galapagos island;

and you will refer to Lazarus,
as your source of inspiration,
someone who can turn you to Epiphany,
you will talk of that occurance at Bethany,

from there you would begin perhaps
your writing of a poetic fiction, a verse,
you would say that was all you wanted to write,
you would talk of sobs that made watermarks on your pillow,
and I would say, people just come and go,
you would ask if they were like Michelangelo;

then there would be a pause,
you would try to find a cause,
and put it into a way to make
your statement of saying nothing,
your dearest possession, a stream,
that had rolled down the hills
and mountains to the plains,
your lyrical offering, to all who disdain
kindness and human oaths,
you would sing, love in your throat,
for all,making no discrimination,
you would become a boat,
and sail away guided by the flow,
you would just away go,

and I would say
people just come and go,
and you will ask
if they were Michelangelo;

I would talk of Prometheus,
and John Lennon and Beatles,
and would place flowers in bulletholes
as my tribute to friends, and to those
who had learnt to fight till the end,
risking death every moment,

you would ask if I have of late
grown a liking to any poet,

my answer would be an affirmation,

'Eliot, Donne, Browning, Tagore?'

'That could be a lethal combination'

'what's that then? who that could be?'

'no one, as such, between you and me'

from there we would turn to words,
from there we would become humanists,
you would talk of Renaissance, Yeats,
I would of paintings on the streets.

Wednesday, November 18, 2015

Dubliners, a leitmotif


It would have been perhaps
that part of a dusk
taken like a leaf out
from that vivid 'Dubliners',


there were no memoirs Irish
no forms of imperial gossip,
eastern guards they were not there,


only it seemed as it were
to say something
for some people to hear,
and for someone to let out
all that were kept like doubts,


a lot can happen over talks,
wars, and our pieces too
broken and missed up cues,
bread, spinach green,
cold coffee , strawberry cream,


everything just over talks,
talks peppered with mustard sauce,
and forks resting beside knives,
cutlery exotic, plastic swipes,


and then posters hanging on the wall
Stephen there about to weep for a girl,
a little flower claiming possibility
in crystal vase, stored for antiquity,


have they all become metropolitan?
smart, clicking heels, stamping boots,
crumpled scrolls of unspoken truth,

Stephen remembered the poem recited
by his uncle in a drunken state,
to his aunt about something patriotic,
love for the land, in a tone charismatic,


the wheels moved at slumbering pace
passing posts making misty trace
on window firmly shuttered down,
it was a faraway town,


the sound of florins on the floor
making jingling noise broke the stupor,
'Dubliners' there on the table kept,
turned into a motif leit.

('Dubliners' is a collection of short stories by James Joyce, )