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

Saturday, November 7, 2009

The Snake is Long - Seven Miles

Couldn't stand, the waters pulled me down

And never ever the wilderness, lost beyond

Whatever colours left, I’ll worship you, there

Where’s that lady that lady that lady so fair ?

I think of mornings that yield to dawn

And of those nights that cry for freedom

Nothing remains save the Mayflower

carrying the pilgrims beyond the tower

This moment and only this, and nothing else

Blasphemy for some, for others, sex sells

Yet it’s a carnival where it rains throughout the day

You can stay for a while, then you've got to go away

Couldn't stand, my feet shook with the mast

Couldn't crawl down, couldn't move fast

Cramped by the walls, but the journey was long

Had to come back – right where I belong

Home sweet home, the bed and the dead

Sleep makes amends, as poets might’ve said

Do waters meet? Seas shores islands and crooks

Dear T.S. Eliot, they haven’t yet read your books

With plagiarized oaths, false rhymes and aching bones

I’ll be writing my own stories across the granite stones

But I can not stand, journey and fever has made me weak

A few moments more, a few seconds more – that’s all I seek

Couldn't stand, the fleshes had blood – virgin blood !

Of primitive Goddesses, faith and draught and flood

Posters and handbills to fill my dreams I guess

You can hide your body I know, but can you hide the face?

There’s nothing to mourn, except for the telephone

and forgetfulness – the only two things I call my own

I’ve found myself sleeping in some cobwebbed tomb

Mother, mother, will you take me back to your womb?

The mother, the sister, the lady, the wife and the whore

Staring down the frames for fifty two centuries and more

Voices speak of themselves, and the leaves – they talk of shame

She stood before me and she asked – “Do you know my name?”

Couldn't stand, couldn’t bear the smell of tears

They pulled me down – the water and the hidden fears

The night is cold and dark – like seventeen empty wells

In those very depths of darkness our banished Eve dwells

And if she doesn't know, then let her know

What poison these soils can grow……

The words keep on staring from the other side of the shore

But now there’s nothing left to be said anymore, anymore…..

Monday, November 2, 2009


The blind pigeon – it has no eyes

In their place

just two hollow dots which are

deeper than everything that

doesn’t exist

I don’t know where the song goes

once it is over

or what happens to the poetry

once the poet has laid his pen


or where we shall go after we

die…. But one thing is

for certain –

the unsung song, the unwritten verse

and the unborn child – they

build their nests in those

two empty spots the pigeon

has in place of its eyes

But the pigeon sings of light!

Indeed a blind pigeon

is like the shadow of terror

in an infant’s face…..

Or maybe the shadow of an infant

in terror’s face

All the same

Sunday, November 1, 2009

Shomoy Ekhon

Shomoy ekhon onek kichhui janey

Karon shomoy poth-hara noy aar

Ami o jani shommotir maaney

Shomoy ke tai shudhai na baarbaar

Shomoy ekhon shishirbheja phooley

Lutiye porey bhroshto alingoney

Ami o kakhon hisheb nikesh bhuley

Shur diyechhi na lekha kon gaaney

Shomoy ekhon akashprodip jwaley

Jolporider ador-makha raatey

Laglo haoa thomkey jaoa paaley

Baan thoi thoi nijhhum jochhnatey

Shomoy ekhon shongyahara bujhhi

Ghum bhengey jaye raatchorader daakey

Ami o kebol shomoytakei khNuji

Hotam raja petam jodi taakey….

Playing to the Gallery

Do you know who I am?

You’ve seen my shields, you’ve seen my swords

You’ve seen my name etched on blackboards

You’ve seen my bones shriveling in the cold

You’ve seen my love being sold and resold

On busy streets, where I begged and stole

In amphitheatres where I played my role

You’ve seen my face through night and day

And you’ve seen my body made of clay

You think that it’s enough

Well, friend, you make me laugh !

You talk of puppets, you talk of strings

And of all those worthless things

Of dime a dozen fairy tales

Of marketplaces where everything sells

Of television news that preach hatred

And try to discern profane from sacred

Of swindlers and thugs becoming kings

Of millionaires’ wives and diamond rings

Of capital markets and stock exchanges

Of dead pop stars and their mock sex-changes

Do you think I really care?

But it’s alright, I don’t pretend to hear…

And those masks you’ve seen me in

Of factory made virtue and sin

And rows and rows of broken faces

Of tired lawyers who’ve lost their cases

Criminal Law is tough, indeed

On mortal flesh it sows its seed

All those questions and all the answers

From King Lear to Japanese dancers

You’d given me the script of the play

And all those words I had to say

You thought I couldn’t see through you

But the haze would lift, I always knew

You’ve seen me smile, you’ve heard me sigh

And those million deaths I did not die

With the lives I did not live

Conjured thoughts meant to deceive

Ripened breasts and hornets’ nests

Of faith, hope and the aftertastes

I’ve lived in the shades of light

Hiding myself from your sight

Like cricket matches that end in draws

Like neon signs and Roman Laws

Like the shadow of fear that haunts the gallows

Like those gentlemen who shoot down swallows

Like the Constitution of the Nation of Death

Like a stillborn baby’s final breath

You’ve seen the saints, you’ve seen the thieves

You’ve heard those speeches our President gives

You’ve seen miseries as they unfold

Being sold in markets for a bagful of gold

You’ve seen laughter being born in murk

You’ve seen light in the womb of dark

You’ve seen Midas with his golden touch

Though his daughter didn’t complain much

You’ve seen assassins dying of guilt

Slaves being whipped, pyramids being built

You’ve seen all these, but you haven’t seen me

Dear History, I’ve hoodwinked thee !

But I know what your mistake is –

You never wait for the rain to cease….

All your hypocrisies – they make me sick

And hence this game of hide and seek…

Beyond this mist the river runs wild

And there she sleeps – my sacred child

Beneath the soil where corpses rest

My blood flows out, with toxic waste

And now for the final part

Read this page before you tear it apart –

Behind my eyes I’ve hidden my mind

You can search, but you won’t find

For the clock hardly strikes its blows

Though time comes and time goes…

Well, if you still claim to know me now

You’re foolish enough, but you’ll get to know me somehow

P.S. Hollow words – they make me high

Hence beware, this might be a lie