Thursday, December 10, 2009

Dhulo aar Bali

thhNai nei, thhNai nei, koththhao nei

ekhane joler bhhishon proyojon

aareo onek kichhu proyojon

jyamon khudkNuro, shurjyer alo, alta, belun,

bhalobasha ityadi ityadi

onek kichhui dekhchhi kinte paoa jaye na ekhan kaar

haatey baajarey

kintu ami toh aar kono upaye jani na

kena byacha jani shudhu –

dhurto Shylock er matoh…..

shudhu oitukui jaani, byas….

Aar kichchhu ti na

Shikor hariyechhi

Shobuj o hariyechhi kobei

ekhanei mati lalityo jane na

phatol o jaane na shikorer shammohonii

rukkhota chirokaal i apochhondo….

Kintu upaye ki?

Lalityo boley hoyto adou kichhu i hoy na

Rupkotha boleo hoyto kichhu nei

Tepantor, Rajputtur, Kotalputturera shob oliik shwapner sh’odagor

Joler, brishtir, tai khub dorkaar

Kintu… kintu…..

Ekhon noy, ekhaney noy,

Aaro ajut lokkho bachhorer

paipoysha hisheber

foyshola baki….

Ekhon noy, ekhane noy….

Aaro onek klanto muhurter porey

Kimba o’paarey

Thhik jani na…..

Wednesday, December 9, 2009

A Handful of Ennui for My Friends

Locked up inside some cage
The world seems an empty stage
Dreams are rare
Though they are there
And nights are long
Like some endless song
That never rhymes
With the lonesome times
And creaking chairs
And unsaid prayers
And croaking toads
On ancient roads –
And unsung songs
Of where she belongs

Strange lands
With moonlit sands
And falling snow
As things I know –
I see them go
And truth and lie
Like chains that tie
Your love with my breath
And your life with my death
And all that’s true, and all that’s false –
They float beyond these dreary walls

And the sky above
With shooting stars
And rotten scars
That sudden thrill –
Too numb to feel
For god is dead
And lights shall fade
Those shadows on your face –
They leave no trace….

Passions burns
On Grecian Urns
Where Odes are written
Like soldiers, beaten,
By love and lust
And marching past
The misty shores
With open doors
And tombs and statues
With much to choose
Though my choice
Was stolen by the Voice….

You seemed so holy then
I want to see you again

Like this rain
Like this pain
Hidden by the smile
That passes in a while
And Strangers look so strange
Though everything must change
Far beyond my windows
The river flows, the fire glows
And my mind reeks
With all the kicks
And magic tricks
Of alcohol
And the final fall
Of melodies
And buzzing bees
As she sees
The green-dream-seas
For the rain to cease
Like some disease
That shall cure
With all that’s pure
Like those secret fishes
That grants our wishes
And heretic chants
Of dead infants
They’re here to stay
Till they decay
With life and blood
Of these sacred mud

The Apostle, with his marble beard
He seems so wicked, he seems so weird
Yet another story to weave
Yet another sigh to heave
And there’s nothing more left to say
Save that I’m waiting for a brand new day
Who knows? Perhaps
You’ll fill in the gaps
Till then, I fare thee well
My faith is ill, my hope is stale
And my love is weak – as these words shall tell….

The Words

Arma virumque cano troiae qui primus ab oris
The arms, the men, and all their fallen glories
The tears, the bones, the music and the memories
December, silent, with fleshes, and dreams, and stories…..

I sing of all these and I sing of more
Virgin Mary and the Babylonian Whore
The Neolith darkness and faces to hide
Stay with me, stay on my side
For that ageless fear is back again
I feel the thunder, I feel the rain……
And I walk across these starless skies
And I search for the blue of your eyes
I went to your temple, was dark and cold
I stared at the ocean, didn’t unfold
All along, there was no one to ask
Though I tried so hard to tear off my mask
And now it’s the cage, the rattling chain
As I wait for the lights to shine again…..

Till then, it’s good bye, I guess
Let me know when you see my face
As I wait for the Day to give me my wings
And I sing this song which nobody sings….
Someday, deep inside my restless heart
I’ll hear you say – “It’s time to start”…

Till then,
It’s just the chain
And the selfsame pain
Again and again
That lonely train –
That night…. that silence… that rain…..

Friday, December 4, 2009

Poetry for the Oceans

The Prologue:

Be gentle with the body, with the mind, and with the falling snow

Time and tide waits for none, though I know not where they go

The past is in your eyes, the present and the future in your naked breasts

Please don’t cover my skies up, for hope and sparrows seek their nests

The Beginning of the Journey:

There’s no sound here, nothing, save that single bullet shot

I’m not true, you know, – it’s just a dream my father begot

And see the moonlight falling on the scars I’ve left behind

Memories, sweet memories – frostbitten, with ribbons to bind

Now it’s time to sleep, Mother Midnight, sleep makes amends

I’ll send postcards from the other side – like the ones she sends

The west wind gave me a flute, but I’d gifted it to the sea

The sea gave me a dream, but I’d opened the cage and set it free

The Body:

The dream had reached the stars, the stars – they lie crucified now

Too much blood on the streets, I need to get out of here somehow

The walls are closing down, and I have shadows to play hide and seek with

There’s a candle burning somewhere, there’s a sword I couldn’t unsheathe

A million dreams to dream, a million songs to sing, a million stories to weave

So much to do, but I’m tired, Sisyphus, friend, I’m sorry, but I, I must leave

And now, for the symphony, the melancholy, and all the other things I forgot

They are for you, for I didn’t seek your love, you know, it’s just you that I sought

The Soul:

And when I’ll cry by the river – “I need to sleep with you, beside you, on your bed!”

Promise me that you’ll let me rest, that you won’t make me make love to you instead

The sun doesn’t set on the sea; it goes down on those bluish sands of the shore

And I’ve run out of tears today, and thus I see you now like I’d never seen before

The Snow:

The old bridge had broken down, the city was on fire, the sirens rang out so loud

I saw him lying dead – Mayakovski, my friend, with his Trouser and his Cloud

But now I’ve fallen asleep, water runs through my vein –

Water – of a thousand years, the rain… the lifeless rain

In Holy Books, they say, once there had been a great flood

But what shall the painter do, if he can’t paint with his own blood?

And what shall the sculptor do, if he can’t mould his own truant flesh?

Yet, I hope – that the morning will be new, I hope that the flowers will be fresh….

The Epilogue:

“Lay him down, lay him down, lay him down” – they’ll say

“Lay him down by the sea, and see the waves wash him away”

“Let him sleep, let him sleep, let him sleep” – I’ll hear them cry

They’ll think I am dead, they’ll be wrong – for I shall never die….

Thursday, November 19, 2009

The Train, the Dream, the Post Script

Between my eyes and yours

and between every other thing

there’s a little known railway station

A few of my friends took a ride

on a train that stops occasionally

at that station….

There were a few other passengers –

One being an old lady who hummed

a sweet melody about flowers that wither

in heat…

One being a child who had

lost her mother during her birth

and had seen her father shoot himself

in the head after being convicted of some

crime she is too young to understand …

One being a Judge who had

stopped talking after sentencing

his own son to death for matricide….

Likewise, each passenger had

a story to tell, but not the words

Those friends – they wore similar clothes –

the very latest in fashion, and thought

similar thoughts, and had similar hopes

and dreams – those of staying in

similar square whitewashed houses,

doing similar jobs in front of similar computers,

watching similar television shows on similar

costly televisions, shitting similar types

of shit in similar pots and flushing

them down in a similar fashion, marrying similar

wax-doll-pretty wives who’d

resemble those similar mannequins that

adorn the entrances of similar garment shops

and so on….

I don’t know where the train was going

And the story ends before

it could begin

For the train never reached

where it was supposed to

Or maybe it wasn’t going anywhere –

Just chugging along – like you and me….

No one was waiting for them

No one waits….

No one has the time…..

The near and dear ones –

They cry for a while

And then they wipe their tears

off, and move along…

No one waits….

No one has the time…..

It’s just a few people who


It’s just a few trains that get


A few flowers are sent, a few letters,

a few telephone calls, a few condolence

messages, and a few lines in the morning

newspapers –

To be gulped down with the

morning coffee,

To be bitten, chewed and swallowed

down with bread and butter….

And then it’s time to get busy,

To secure the next day’s, the next

month’s, the next year’s coffee, bread

and butter.....

The days – too busy to wait

The nights – too tired not to sleep

And before falling asleep –

a few empty words, a few empty sighs

a few empty prayers, and a few empty

drops of tear –

They dry out pretty soon,

And nothing remains….

Nothing …

A few of my friends have died

in a train accident

That’s all

Post Script:

I had a sad and beautiful dream

In that dream I saw those friends

in the train

I heard their sunlit words of hope

I heard their laughter ringing out loud

I saw their words building nests

on the branches of those trees outside

that moved in the opposite direction

I saw their laughter spreading out

across the sky and stretching beyond

the horizons…..

I was with them in that dream

Yet somehow,

I had the dream,

but they were inside the dream

I have a feeling that they’ll stay

there – right inside the train and

right inside the dream – forever….

Captive, forever….

Free, forever…..

Wednesday, November 18, 2009

Sudden Winter Rain

Sudden winter rain

Peeps through my window

Finds me shivering in pain

Gifts me a rainbow

And says – “I’ll come back again”

Sudden winter rain

Cuts through my dream

Cuts through my vein

Like some unknown village stream

Like memories that remain

Sudden winter rain

Brings postcards from the hills

And ties me with the chain

Of hopeless love that kills

Like a cold and empty train….

Sudden winter rain

Shocks my garden flowers

Which smell of loss and gain

Like life – banished in towers –

It’s time for time to reign….

Sunday, November 15, 2009


Listless thoughts that escape me

Like old painters who cannot see

And little birds with broken wings

I think of all these sacred things

I think of life, I dream of dying

On starless skies I find them lying

I stare at bells that never toll

Their silence eats my mortal soul

The sea sings of timeless love

The moon stares from above

She can smell his salt and his bliss

She drowns in him, she finds her peace

Floating by the stream of guilt

I think of nests I never built

But someday, perhaps, it will rain

To heal my wound, to soothe my pain

Words have borders, but life has none

This poem shall end where it begun

For this moment is my eternity

And I’ll stay awake in this sleeping city

Thursday, November 12, 2009

My Tired Prayers

Someone’s standing in front of me

Someone’s asking me my name

They’re seeing what they have to see

And thinking of someone to blame

I can see the breeze, I can feel the sky

I can think of life, I can think of death

Of broken whispers, of birds that die

And of this holy soil - her tender blue breath

My life’s just a handful of dust and butterflies

The countless battles I’ve lost, the few ones I’ve won

And light, and darkness, and other sweet lies

I can’t dream anymore, Mother, forgive this fallen son

I have woken up with time and now I must go to bed with it

In between it’s the green, it’s a voice from the sea so dry

Those ticking clocks, the echo mocks, my very own heartbeat

I’ve nothing to give, sweet mother, but for this faithless cry

Colours to paint the void, and words to stitch the curtain

Heroes of iron and flames, damsels of wax and plastic

Villains with hideous names – their defeat seems so certain

The stage’s set, the sky’s wet, but the eyes make me sick

Render unto thy own soul – holy words they'll preach

But those saints – they don’t feel what they say

They haven’t seen the beast, haven’t heard it screech

I screamed out for help and they just turned away

Mother, I’ve lost my only song

Mother, I can’t breathe here anymore

Mother, this isn’t where I belong

Mother, did you have to open the door?

There’s a fire burning in some place

To fight this lonesome cold

Haven’t seen it, for I’ve lost the race

And now I’ve grown so old

I need to go home, mother, please take me back

Scold me for whatever I’ve become, I won’t mind a single thing

My eyes are dead, my feet are cold, my mind is black

Mother, please sing to me all those songs you once used to sing

Tuesday, November 10, 2009


I’ll build you a concert hall

I’ll build to you a dream

I’ll kiss where your shadows fall

And flows away downstream

I’ll speak of love, I’ll speak of lust

And of everything that aches,

I’ll speak of the present, of the past,

And of the tree of haunted sex

Hopeless love – it’s meant to stay

Though promises may be false

I ramble along throughout the day

In my ragged overalls

I hear your name in the winds that blow

And in the churchbells that chime

I’ll stay for a while, and then I’ll go

To time’s timeless regime

I yearn for you, I burn for you

Down the road, footloose

I’m happy, for my pain is new

And beggars never choose

The Drunkard Speaks of Love

The lights are fading out

The dead Gods are angry as well

and the parents are having dinner in the next room

But why shall I care?

Been chased throughout

The light, the darkness, the haze

The gaze

The murderers – they sing of love

The saints sing of sex

And other things that kick and bite – they bid me farewell

There’s a dead telephone


way down below my dead soul

It hasn’t rung for the last ten billion years

But whatever

I love you

There’s a stalker who speaks German

And a dreamer who plays the violin so sad

The joker doesn’t talk – the king has cut his tongue off

Or maybe he has bitten it off

all by himself

But what difference does it make?

The dead Gods are angry

The angry Gods are dead

The palace – it’s built of the bones of old Jesuits

And the temple is made of discarded bottles of Coca Cola

I’d hidden my thunderbolts there

between the branches of

the chestnut tree where our fa├žades grow

But I can’t find the tree anymore

A fountain runs where it stood once

Ruins of time – like tuberculosis

And excrements of space – like rat-shit

But why the hell am I writing all these nonsense?


I don’t know


I don’t