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….