Ingénue Revelations

Note to K

2012-02-08T16:14:00.000+05:30

Here I want to slip in the doubt that happiness might not be that light after all,even though its effects are; that happiness is perhaps beyond words, deeper than its adversary. It's not for poets to display their mastery over expression. It is not for the heart, if it exists. It is for the hapless and the hopeless to marvel at a cable bridge braiding itself outward, taking the threads from within, perhaps the heart, perchance the entrails...
stringing... one with the other

floating..swaying, braiding still

building on.

________________________________________________________________________________

And having written thus, I stare at the words and wonder "Well then, that's what growing up feels like".

Convex

2011-12-07T22:37:00.000+05:30

When you talk about women
the words inflate themselves to suit your taste
for every curve a wider word
for every woman, a mile
a light-year for them all.

When you talk about me
they deflate themselves to points
three little dots
and nothing before or after
Lost in ellipses?
after a comma, perhaps
(the pregnant pause, the infertile language
the inadequate expression,
the anxious impression,
the layman’s nothing, nothing, nothing?)

Perchance, a full-stop…

Precisely

2011-10-06T12:10:00.000+05:30

Shamelessly pink..shamelessly pink…shamelessly pink.

I make stories, I never write them. They are never true. Just demons I create to plague me later-days when I call on numbers I breathe, and no one answers.

And then begins the epic of apprehension, the possible romance of a grand loss. Just that some 48 unanswered calls later when the immensely significant other takes the call, the significance fades.

Unrest is beautiful.

Also, I noticed that I don’t search for a spare corner of a back page to spill these days, I grab my laptop and open a word document.

Ketamine I’m losing you
gradually.

“Come fill me again”

(And here’s the urge to write something more, to add a punctuation here, a phrase there, some conjunction somewhere, here’s the need for visible coherence

and what lies above is the abstinence, the document of deprivation)

Breach

2011-10-06T12:08:00.002+05:30

There’s romance in buying Mediterranean lamps
from stop-gap airports
But you must write about me
as well
Until then I shall continue breaking hearts
On an average.

2011-09-16T22:58:00.000+05:30

What do women write about? Sloppy emotional ramblings, mood swings, private inanities…inconsequential encounters? What should women write about? Fiscal policy?... The perfect goal (without yielding to the temptation of passing any comment on the scorers physical appearance)…slight other women or women-kind at large? Write about the condition of teenage boys in warring nations? And then would you not keep aside your magnifying glass and slightingly say “Who’s she to talk about all that?” Unless, of course the ‘she’ is Chitrangada Singh.

What have I been writing about all this while? What started as attempts at poetry ended up being meticulously stringed words, new in design, repetitive in essence. Always trying to give words to the typical teenage pang of being “in love/ and private rage”(quoting a genius of a junior here) and almost always writing with the expectation of being read by an anonymous someone who understands it all, even when the words don’t shape up right.

And what if someone does?
That’s when there is suddenly nothing to write about. That’s when it’s no longer a writer’s block but a poet’s paradise where poetry is in feigning misinterpretations only to prolong a conversation; poetry is having someone to buy books for...

Mind Candy

2011-07-24T00:42:00.000+05:30

Most of us want to be happy

Some of us just want everything... To be happy and to be able to be grudge its absence as well... To be content and pine for contention at the same time. Here's the kind your mum should have warned you against and not strangers with chocolates. They are harmless when compared to those who love the rains and revolt at the mud that settles on their toe-nails,who want to hear and learn of great love stories which end in disasters, who need to be betrayed just so that they can suffer great pain and know it, touch its pink raw core and be back to regular life the next day. If not, they'll imagine it for themselves.

They are the kind who want to be loved to death and yet need loopholes to usher in doubt. They want you to want them like an animal and when you say so, they'll despise you for that. They want you to be gentle and when you are, they need you to be rough.

So if you know one such flaming winter, close the door on them, keep them off the hearth. 'Cause these fires cannot be contained in fireplaces. They either burn at pagan bonfires or set the house on fire.

There.

2011-04-29T22:30:00.000+05:30

Look,

I being a woman

And honest

With or without a vestige of alchohol

Love the way you hand me a glass,

Pull out a chair,

Belittle my perfected naivete

But do not hand me your keys and cars

And books and pillows

I’m sure to change them, reshuffle, rearrange them

Into such alien art that everytime you reach home you’ll feel

Like on some morbid street

So that when you dash out and meet me on the streets

You shall feel at home

At the angle of the stairs- I

2011-04-27T16:00:00.000+05:30

If what you had wanted as a nineteen year old comes knocking at your door at twenty-three when you don't believe in its existence anymore, would you still want it?

Would you embrace it?

Think again, girl.

Raving

2011-04-24T13:18:00.000+05:30

It’s moving.

A movement, many a movements all for that same vixen of a change. A lot of movements recently: trolley bags being dragged from room to room at the midnight hour, boxes opened searched sealed again and again- broken searched sealed again- opened fingered through the entrails again- ugly guts, ugly drying guts –NOT FOUND, clumps of cotton push out through the tear again. Oh teddy teddy is this where the bear hugs came from? The warmth of cotton now clawed scattered and dead.

Those are the tufts of cloud that was his tummy

It’s moving

Its moving on that’s most moving. It isn’t.

Its moving out that’s moving. And there’s Surendran’s chair without the leg. Will that be moving too? Or just pushed aside, pushed away?

Furniture you!

You furniture, aye!

You! furniture I?

Aye! Aye!

Come thermocol , come mothball, let’s make this ritual grand for the mind to feel it moved. Come dragging, piling, marking, unmarking, toppling, falling, throbbing, hurting, quivering, stomping, slamming let’s make it remarkable.

With a little help from a final push.

-Regards

Furniture I

all the same

2011-04-19T02:27:00.002+05:30

I loved Love

Back when it was a unicorn

Till it became a paper-plane

Which took off for the real deal, settled for a little less

And lost its way in my cluttered space

They love Love

All the same

-Arka Roy, And Yours Truly

Game plan

2011-04-17T21:07:00.000+05:30

So here's the game.

I will give you hints, maps, and even directions. And then discredit them. I will tell you what to look for which exact words, which subtle signs, songs, whispers, door-slams. And when you are almost there I'll negate them all. And it will be up to your conviction in your comprehension, your sixth sense to kick aside the wrong stepping stone.

So here's the journey.
Will you play?
Will you play along?

You're my deep secret, I'm your pantomime
I'll just move my hands, I promise you'll see what I mean

All or part of the file name?

2011-01-18T14:32:00.000+05:30

Are you searching for something?
Yes?

I'm searching for something too. Let's search together, shall we?
All the nooks, corners, crevices, books, pillows....hills, valleys...galaxies...the minds of men?
Let's search again.

But here let me tell you I should be back by 6 p.m or before we insert a finger into each other's hollowness, whichever is sooner.

Counselling

2011-01-16T14:51:00.000+05:30

Follow the dots will you?
Follow the pattern
Here is logic and here's the need
And your imagination is right here inside my calloused fist.

Here's your vision
this is what you might wish
that dream cannot be funded
And this will be too cheap

So here I lay your options
They all look alike
the decision has been made
adhere and oblige

follow the dots
....they all look alike
follow the dots
....but, they all look alike

Liqour language

2010-09-25T22:09:00.000+05:30

Honey, I'm swinging. I'm on the edge and swinging.

Honey, Honey I'm in love with her. I love staring at her. Her eyes.
She looks like you would ten years later.....

And then someone asks how would you feel if he had a spell of 'normal human attraction'?

I'd like to tell him "It's ok"
I'd like to tell him "It's human"
I'd like to tell him "I love you"

Don't you know I need my man to frisk every once in a while ? How else would I know I'm the one?
How else would I "flick my hair and take him in"?

I need intermittent 'action'..Tut tut

I need a climax everyday.

Litter,leftover's

2010-08-23T01:48:00.000+05:30

Pawing paper-cups is my avocation
Walking without shoes- One-three-two-four

That lump you talk about, you talked about yesterday
did not last a day.
But I was born with mine
lumps beneath my feet
Grandad Tommy said " That's where they should be"
The throat is just to see
how long the tongue flows
how deep it goes
how does one measure greed

the city's litter says it all
measures greed in calories
the hydrometer says 'tl rain
but time needs a divine scullery

And all this stench who cannot take
-the sophisticated takes a tram
And other's press a cloth so tight
they close the door to their rotten form

And I sad dog look up
My snout held high as rain beats the walls
And prick my ears for the rains plea
For some human kindness

Hot Girls >< Bathtubs

2010-05-28T17:05:00.000+05:30

Disappointment is pricking your ear to catch a tune bellowing out from a distant neighbours' television set, running to the living room scanning through 79 channels to finally get to watch the last few seconds of an advertisement which had captured your fancy during the formation years to find -they've changed the GIRL!!!!!!!

Long pencil legs replaced by short stout ones, long slender arms replaced by limbs screaming baby-fat and that fairy like glide replaced by a perky high-heeled strut?!?!

How could they?
Now, one might say I'm being shallow and discriminatory but then if I had to admire femininity for it's sake I'd plain look into my mirror... But when the music says "Saundarya saboon Nirma"---

I WANT SONALI BENDRE.

Oh the golden glow
the dusky beauty
her Bollywoodish glee
her needless walks
and endless legs

Oh the woman
Who could even make bargaining for grocery
Seem like an Edenic exchange

is gone!

But if you're a Hansika Motwani fan, you should surely catch the new ad. *biggrin*

Mr.Hyde

2010-05-21T12:16:00.000+05:30

Today you'll get the tickets
And another 'today' you'll leave

Tail-tale and a Tattoo

2010-04-22T00:29:00.000+05:30

Joe caught the mythic mermaid

and etched his name upon her tail

The night she stole her way back

he lost more than his name

The myth said:

The mermaid was a goddess

But Joey was no saint

The myth remained

The lover's changed.

Boyfriends and Bull'somethings'

2010-04-15T04:30:00.000+05:30

Well, much fuss about a changed “relationship status” and an anger fueled by a few vermins has compelled me to compose the following tirade.

I never wanted to do this on my blog. But hey! Better puke on your platter than someone else’s, right?

So the question is “why?”

And I endorse clichés and reply “why not?”

I am thankful to God if he exists( or to Debottam Dutta , cause he’s God enough for me) that I’ve come across a few good people in my life for whom I can con much more than a ‘relationship status’.

But why?

Oh, because a certain Miss. Bhattacharya only “toyed with the idea of being in love with him”-because?-she’s too much in her bubble to see beyond. –because?-she only realizes what she’s giving away when someone else claims it.

And then Mr. Know-it-all comes along with his vile verbosity and rekindles my old antipathy towards the term ‘boyfriend’.

-A ‘multi-tasking’, body-inking, head-banging, gut-wrenching, spleen-squishing metrosexual man is what comes to my mind… and sympathy for my seventeen-year old self, sympathy for my naiveté at not having learnt to distinguish between love and relationships, relationships and relationship status’s, between a man and a male.

Between mindless splurging and senseless conversations what ‘boyfriend’ came to mean to me was little more than packaged coercion’s of a hormone-charged body, and the relationship- a day-to-day saccharine resistance to it .

I think I told someone this morning “I am medieval”.

I am. Or at least my principles are.

(And I have loved a man whose reaction to the above statement would be like:

Puh!

Principles, young lady are little more than variables.)

Debottam Dutta is not my boyfriend.

And though I know what he deserves, and thus would go my length to make sure he gets it, I care not about who finally strikes this ‘gold’. I leave it to the ladies to fight it out cause I’ve something better to look forward to –his promise of being my ‘dad’ next life.

And now
I breathe

To, 'The Man who isn't there'

2010-03-28T00:33:00.001+05:30

Why did they kill you lover?

Before I could grow up

Wear your incense on my bosom

And walk the streets?

Before I could taste each of your fingers

And feel my strength clutching

your hairy freak?

Why did they kill you lover

When double-decker buses were withdrawn?

When typewriters sat idle by the road?

And 'mine' and 'truly' faded

In the callow letters bundled

and the red ribbon frayed

along the edges?

Why did they kill you lover?

Before the dresses shortened?

Revolution responded

Eyes changed their colour

And hand-in-hand they gazed

Time and Voyeur amazed

Why did they kill you lover

And not let you die

Or live to write a story

for the twist?

Why did they kill you lover?

Before I learnt to be poised

Or at least a peer aesthete?

Molting and its ethics

2010-03-19T23:26:00.000+05:30

I read into another life, another's life each day.

Another woman my age, if biology counts, and layers of understanding elder and richer than mine. I read forward and backward through the three years she has shared, inward and outward of the many moments, incidents and insignificance's that make her what she has been these three years, of what she is now and everything and everyone that she's yet/about to be.

Envy would be an easy emotion to set in, even awe and admiration if the good angels whispered it into my ears. But truth be told, it's a hollowness, an endless void that might take more than a lifetime to be saturated.

It's not an ideal to follow but at least an inward-pointing finger that chide the hibernating seeds of a significant person that lie scattered inside. And significance here is purely personal

And it feels like fear
Like I'll disappear
Gets so hard to steer
Yet I go on

-Lift, Poets of the Fall

Arbitrageur

2010-03-18T22:14:00.002+05:30

Word traveled from mouth to mouth

On flakes and fire

Fag ends, these days exalt desire

Cross- counter damnation

Now costs a trifle more

Turn out the pockets

(Manumission's sold)

Another quarter

And you could have your whore

*To the torch-bearers of the tobacco industry and their anticipation of the emergence of a popularly-priced brand

BOOKISH

2010-03-17T20:19:00.002+05:30

Balls for A One-armed Juggler(1963), Irving Layton

Overwhelmed.

Cruelty?

2010-03-14T12:19:00.001+05:30

This will be the last time I tell you

How I curl my toes

And not my lips

How I close my palm

and draw you in

How I twitch my nose and never plead

How I curl my t’s in Italics

And the women you meet

Tell them they’re pretty

Praise their sea-deep eyes

And crave for me

But if you should cross my street

And fall weak on your knees

I will flick my hair and take you in

Keep you in my closet between the dreams

Like a pair of old shoes

In a new box cover

Like an old excuse

Used over and over

11.03.2010

2010-03-13T16:52:00.003+05:30

Kal S.K.M Sir ashben to take a class on Elizabethan poetry.

( translation: The dessert authorities have decided to plant a temporary fresh water source as people started gorging on cacti thinking it to be water-melon)

Traduttore, Traditore!?? Oh yes.

I’m starved of his presence. Starved of ‘gaale-haath-diye’ wistfully staring at him with sublime awe and incredulity, of his sudden question thrown at me “Jude the Obscure kobe published hoyechilo? Ki? Kobita?” with a hint of a pride in his foreknowledge of the certainty of getting the answer.

I’m starved of his voice reverberating through those mid-nineteenth century architectural wonder chambers that we call classrooms, of his constant and strikingly coherent references to Rabindranath no matter what text or what period he takes up, his nonpareil dexterity at fleeting across time, history of English literature, Indian nationalism, philosophy and of the history of Presidency College….dates, names, biographies, critics, critiques, authors, publications, letters, poetry……and almost always a class of fifty minutes would be antithetically both too much and too less.

I was not supposed to write so much. Not a word after ‘presence’. But somehow I don’t want my ‘revelations’ / observations/ fixations to be cryptic anymore. Ingenue is what Ingenue does! ( Woe to me! The mindless plagiarist). I’ll mention myself, the people close to me, people who are ‘further away and closer still’. I need not mention the man I admire in connotations anymore. I need not bother that they might get it all wrong. They might talk, they might call it ‘romantic wish-fulfillment’.

Oh it is. But only romantics would ever know what pleasure such indulgences spill. I’ll mention all I want to write about...

…except for the Sea.
He wanted it this way. And that's how it shall be.

And in any case some mistakes are too grave to edulcorate or repeat.

Convulsions

2010-03-10T14:37:00.000+05:30

Before the letters curled, thoughts curled up for good at the sight of bare teeth with coffee stains. And ugly swollen eyes that tell your age
Now the mind must sleep as tomorrow seeps in

and a gnawing lurks outside the door.

But, perhaps its good to know the streets are safe no more. Clutch your cross and travel underground. Lest tentacles sprout of the alien beneath the skin and point at make shift bedrooms on the street, or the bulging belly of the dusty child at your feet.

And drugs on days encore And nights that end no more

green straw nestle's

2010-03-06T20:16:00.000+05:30

I came.
I saw
I procrastinated
I questioned my abilities
I floated through photo albums
I wanted those pictures too
I wanted me in them
I wanted a better cell-phone( one with a camera in it)
I want not to want it
I want not to need anything more

Nothing more than the good-life my folks have woven
Nothing more than the comforting prescience that ma would know if I shiver in my sleep
Nothing more than being able to tell my didi's success story over and over again
Nothing more than knowing she's there, she always will
Nothing more than being the blacksheep-princess that I'm
Nothing more than being enveloped by the 'rare man'
Nothing more than growing up to him. But..

I'm human. My wants are multiplying each day
I'm middle-class. But it seldom comes in my way

I want to paint an orange woman on a black paper. Someday
I want to have my own style or many.
I want Ma to have all the china she has always wanted
I want her to stop counting coins
I want to tell didi she's done it

I want be his doll forever. Slip into his T's and look odd.
I want to come home with him on summer evenings
I want to buy him a Moby Dick

Cyan. I love the ocean.

2010-03-01T22:21:00.000+05:30

And violet toes from yesterday.

Ketamine is all smiles. Beat that.

Why should she not be?

1. As she observed her emoticons were not emoting deep within. System scanned, Error: Obscure melancholia.
2. The wrong kinds of people are attending A.C.M Maam’s classes on Beloved.
3. Just organizing a seminar with complicated pseudo-issues was not enough, professors had to be begged to stick to their seats
4. People are joining “Save tigers ” ,“Save Penguins” pages on Facebook and talk like “Eww you are so Gorib” whoever is going to save humanity??
5. Kids half her age ( or maybe a little more) are through with their youth. And have supposedly grown out of college. And as she prayed once she prays again “ God keep my growth arrested forever and ever. Amen”
6. He who is almost-here is already on his flight back.
7. She wanted it this way.
8. And cyan will be tomorrow.

But there were colours yesterday.
Too many of them.
When I wasn’t even looking.
They were in my eyes.
It was Holi too.
And He was there.
He who will always be.

He who sprinkled violets on my way.

And was there another Troy for her to burn?
They had answered.
She was 'theirs'.

2010-02-21T21:56:00.000+05:30

Roger,

Love was windows in rapture at 6 o' clock,

when the library closed for the day.
And ants meandering across the walls
found its way within.

Love was a conviction gone wrong

Stealing moments from a bullying conscience.

Love was liquor served too often

to be spilled. Too full a glass

smashed against the wall

to be stained forever

Love was standing strong on the foremost boulder

Against the waves

Defiantly, maybe

When he said “You’re weird…

2010-02-10T15:01:00.000+05:30

And so is your definition of a ‘friend’ “, he couldn’t have been closer to the truth. He knows it for himself or does he not?

Deus-

He knows I might be mad at him tomorrow and again day after, and then once week or twice a day and in between there’ll be these moments when we’ll know for sure “We are GooooooooooooooD”

-ex-machina

And then there’s this mountain ‘that I’d like to climb/ not to conquer / but to share in the view”. Only I know it too well if and when he reads this, he’ll turn it into the age-old height-disparity joke. The ‘height’ being the absence of any kind of ‘disparity’, otherwise. The ‘joke’ being having nothing to say when you realize how something slipped right out of hands when you have been playing the truant with that clichéd tutor called Life. And then you look at your empty palms and wonder how they have been copiously endowed than ever. And we both know it too well that you never tell your right arm or your left eye “ I love you ”.

You mean it all the same.

You remain ensconced in my childhood. You remain.

~Oh its what you do to me

Oh its what you do to me

…what you do to me~

Trajectory

Seven years change a lot. For starters I’m not fourteen anymore.

‘Sweet fourteen’!!

(Oh yes it has changed …sixteen has passed down her crown)

And I do not have the privilege to throw those ‘no-one-understands-me’ tantrums anymore. They have known me for long enough to have understood my behavior pattern and are convinced that I would not commit suicide at a metro-station the morning after a brawl because I wouldn’t waste the remaining 27 rides.

I’m no longer aspiring to become the Head Girl, trying to pull my act together. I’m on the other side of it. I know it’s still a patriarchal society where the Head Boy carries the School flag, and the insignificant counterpart balances the banner, antagonizing a headstrong wind at Rabindra Sarobar Stadium. (Add to that he also gets to decide the menu on significant occasions. Not that I care about the food anyway)

I no longer believe men can be won or lost. They can only be understood or misunderstood. They can only be tormented in physical proximity or be preserved in silence.

I no longer fret over the general idea of humanities pursuant’s being considered as being equivalent to dumb blondes. It’s no myth. (I know I’m being poor man’s Chetan Bhagat with this attempt at kindling controversy. Consolation being only I read my blog and a few others because Facebook keeps promoting all sorts of shit in the name of Live feeds)

I know too well results mean nothing.

Review results are all that counts.

I know marks cannot earn you a spot at a desired university, for some of us we literally need to earn to get there before hypermetropia loses out to presbyopia .

It feels good to be a topper but its "no great matter/I’ve seen the moment of my greatness flicker".

And all in these seven years.

A toast to you Seven Years for being such a wonderful friend.

…to be continued

P.S- I've quoted people, poets and songs..and if you want to know who all...go google or go figure!

(N.B- while writing this post Microsoft Word has been bugging me too often with “Fragment. Consider revising”. Don’t know if this is a joke or a tragedy but seems like I’m misunderstood by humans and androids {strictly, my office assistant, an Einstein of two centimeters} alike)

Messages

2010-02-02T10:12:00.000+05:30

Arunav and Rajat – “Oh you’re not a close friend of hers if she has not told you about a ‘certain’ man and ‘certainly’ his blog’’, has reached me*smiles* But that’s not true. I might spill something about the ‘certain’ man (blame it on the liquor) to you CLOSE-fiendish-friends, but I share nothing of what he writes unless I consider someone fit to read it. Huh!

And with this I suddenly realise that I have more fingers than friends (and I'm not counting my toes) but you can be sure I'm counting you.

Aside to Arunav- As compensation you might send me a Beetle. ;)

Eshita- The dreams were confidential. Thou shall be rebuked for this.

Aurnob- Thank you. Your understanding what the Sea means to me means a lot to me. I shall remember that.

Education?

2010-01-23T20:09:00.000+05:30

I've learnt to cook palak paneer.

I've learnt to apply literary theories on anything that can be called a 'text'.

I've learnt to adapt with the normal trends of my 'age'.

Only I do not know which one was better education.

Stolen

2010-01-11T19:24:00.000+05:30

I stole them today.

A red sky and a man I've loved.

.........But none do I possess.

Metamorphosis

2010-01-01T22:15:00.000+05:30

He who had strum the guitar last night
Is now without a song.
And the ripples in his strings are but gone

He left the fire warm but inept.
And though it’s called a fire-escape
Only the smoke escaped.

22.12.2009

2009-12-30T12:06:00.000+05:30

The last time he wrote it was my birthday.

It surfaced much later.

I turn the page each day to a blank.

I'm impatient.

I took my muffler and some crumbled ten rupee notes and went out for a walk. I take short strides. I don’t know if they make a long way short or a short way longer. I don’t know if I walk like my mother or my father. I don’t know if walking gait is at all a ‘blood’ thing. If it depends on who teaches you to walk then I presume I walk like our landlord/lady of the house/coop we had rented during those years. They were beautiful years, when I could hardly walk and badly wanted to run. When at the slightest incitation I would rush to the shoe-rack, pull out my bubblegummers, slip into them (almost always squeezing in the wrong foot in the wrong pair) and declare:

“Juto poye tata bye-bye”

(I have worn my shoes which means I’m going out)

I could keep pace with my grandfather (my mother’s uncle). He had a failing heart and had to take short strides. I had to run alongside my father on the way to the school. At other times I would fall behind every two minutes but did a great job imitating him (my father walks with his hands knotted behind ). Only that it was tough keeping my hands knotted, they were small enough compared to my diameter (a tiny waist ensconced within a good deal of baby-fat). As such they would often slip or else give the impression of a waddling penguin.

The last ten years of school I enjoyed solitary walks ---crossing over the bridge---walking past fields ----swinging the water-bottle----sometimes banging it against my head----playing with dirty puppies ----being chased by their mother----being chased by senior boys in middle-school---and maths tuition in high school.

College has become synonymous to walks. Central— a wiff of unpleasant odour from the adjacent vat ---a more welcome smell of toast and ghugni while squeezing through the open air stall near C.M.C gate---- again an attack of repulsive air arising out of the hospital waste and garbage at the other gate---and finally our heaven (Yes, it is dirty inside our gates as well but we do not wash dirty linen in public. Period.) And of course there’s enough space inside for walks…various kinds of them. A morning sprint to the N.S Building to attend pass classes, in the very first month of first year when you have not yet adapted to the ways of the wild and know not pass classes= free periods. If a senior invites you for a walk more often than not the conversations bear fruit on a particular day in January or February (or at the least they get the idea that the fruit is not for them to pluck. Here I’m talking about the red apples and the blue apples and the latest addition the green apples * wink *). Walks with classmates or batch-mates are mostly speculations on inchoate romances, where the boy and the girl still claim to be “good friends” but are adding each other to the “Friend and Family” number list (Advice: Try BSNL’s Kolkata 99 plan).And then someday we all walk out of that gate in slow motion while a junior clicks the ‘pic’.

I had walked long enough. The ageless trees of Moore Avenue were alive with the birds singing in imperfect orchestration. It was still music. It always will be. And unspoken conversations keep buzzing with them…directions to a ‘home’, a mother, a childhood, a mango tree…

And we keep walking in different directions. Forgetting the world is round.

“ Tomar shathe amar kotha nei”

2009-12-10T21:33:00.000+05:30

-the voice of a 55year old, the indignation of 25.

And three days back when the Sea came to my doorstep was it difficult for me to stand three feet away or was it impossible to retreat any further?

Sanity killed many. But I had been hibernating. Nothing changed for me.

He made me love Keats to fill up for him and coughed up his blood instead. But is this ‘beautifully red’? He named his story “Shudhu Kobitar Jonno” but chose immortality instead. Is this where my eyes had led?

Silence killed many. But I did not have a death pass. Nor the will to die.

We could not flout the years between. We cannot bridge the crack of twice my age and ten more years. We cannot contravene the orthodoxies of our time. We cannot call it “love”, it is too uncertain of what it is. We called it “intoxicant” and then bottled it up and named the bottle “repository”, “home” had been pawned out to preserve this document of distance.

And the gnomes burrowing into our conscience have been silenced forever. The garden is beautiful each day where blossoms appear and appearances blossom and the chthonic emotion dries beneath its weight.

petal by petal

we deflowered a voice

and in eternal silence

they keep floating on the Sea..

And then there’s this thing about birthdays…

2009-11-08T21:31:00.000+05:30

…you get calls from people who exist only in phonebooks for the rest of the year, and people who do not use STD promos, texts from unknown numbers which when you reply turn out to be std numbers( Damn! My Re.1!!!!!!!…for a “thank you”!?!)…calls from elderly relatives after you’ve tied your shoelace( the landline being in the bedroom and access denied with shoes on) and planning a 10mins sprint to the metro station, not that you wouldn’t miss the first 10mins of the 1st class that way!

And then there are friends who conveniently forget and then call up two days later with not even the pretension of remorse but just to remind that you’ve aged enough to discard your favourite line of colourful socks (rainbow, teddybears, blue stars……)

*smiles*

...people say I'm too full of myself...I am

2009-10-16T20:27:00.000+05:30

I wandered. I loved it.

But then I love this more…I love knowing that I wont be going to office tomorrow the day after or

ever again. I love planning all the books I shall be buying from college street this week….I’m thrilled

to recall the incessant “didi, ki boita?” and the crafted resolution on my face when I say “ eta 45-er

beshi hotei parena ”

I love knowing, another week and I shall be a full time student again…the corner of the 2^nd last

bench…room no.23…in the pinks of Presidency College, where I belong. Like the prodigal son I’ll be

going back “home” ..attend seminars on Pinter, sleep through Renaissance thought…desperately

wait for A.C.M Ma’am to start Beloved…go to sleep with the pile of books on my bed…get a monthly metro ticket…

wash my sneakers...dust my backpack…re-adjust my sleep timings to the normal day-n-night

schedule…plan to finish answers on my way back from college…and then sleep the evening

through…and wake up next morning without an inkling of remorse or guilt…keep calling D every

now and then…go back to our normal break-up-patch-up-within-3days routine…check out girls

together at sadan...hold hands at sundown…and still check out other girls….nightfall…and home…

and the clock…. goes round the clock

I’m going back to all that…I’m going back to the life I wanted a break from…I’m going back to the life that is essentially mine…I’m going back to poetry, books, music and D….I’m going back to Me.

2009-10-08T01:04:00.000+05:30

He said:

We shall not land
Not here
We shall not proceed
Not any further
But move on
For it’s a simple thing
You and I
In this beautiful world
We move
Keep moving
In or out is not for you to know

She said:

There is no box
Else there is no lid
Or there is nothing inside
But then you keep dragging it
So will I
Out that door
But the door is locked
Or there is no key
Or there is no door
It’s only for you to see

01.06.09

2009-10-06T10:19:00.000+05:30

Being childish is claiming a much elder man whom I got to know over the net.

Being childish is unknowingly being the right weapon to get your woman to act the way you wanted her to. Being childish is not to have let out the truths about her believing you already know. Being childish is hurting both of us thereof. Being childish is walking all the way from College Street to Baaghbazar believing that I could lose myself at the end of the road. Being childish is sleeping on your shoulder on the way back after you’ve tamed the wild colt with a thunderous slap. Being childish is calling you up 124 times in a single evening to ask “ What if I fail?”. Being childish is to make you come over to my college, incase I really do fail. Being childish is to need you to make the 62.5% sink in. Being childish is to fret over which exit of the Rabindra Sadan metro station to take, which bus to take me to the north. Being childish is to have hated you through the 2-3hr long midnight sessions on “growing up”, “being a woman”, “how to take criticism”….Being childish is to have been gifted with that vast body of knowledge that you had acquired through excruciating suffering...to have become this much stronger me I know and not being able to say anything nearly good enough to express my gratitude.

Being childish is not to have known that it was never being childish….It was being your child.

God made man in his image.I have made God in your's.

Play

2009-09-30T12:28:00.000+05:30

I have these phases when I get unnaturally attached to cheap music..aye, your everyday bollywood chart-topper or maybe not...but yes it has to be peppy and sickeningly meaningless...last puja its was the bipasha basu starrer "LUCKY BOY"--few men got ideas..others got pissed..most got unnerved...some 6 months later..it was "baba amar ki biye hobena?"(my dad pretended temporary deafness)..followed by the incoda tv triggered "mon mane naa"...this time the victim was Nobby(poor dear!)

And then..a long silence,there was nothing...not even buzzing crickets

because I've been talking.

Welcome back..!

Once again now there's this new song....though I dont even knw the name...but there's this refrain that goes like "jaane mere dil ko kya hua"...thanks to a cab-mate who plays the song regularly.

(Our professors would say literature cant be categorised into good and bad...to understand Joyce you need to read Mills and Boons , to absorb Lawrence Sheldon needs to be read...If we apply the same to music then lets say I'm preparing myself for some greater song......)

Aye! In me

2009-09-11T14:06:00.000+05:30

A mermaid was seen drowning

So the fisherman cast his net

But it was heard the other night

That he was caught instead

~The fisherman

You are the seven stars I never had

The waking dream I want to see

The moonbeam I never touched

The snowflake I long to be

The sleepiness of a winter bed

The torpor in my calmest sea

The unrest of a fuming storm

The pressing need for a misery

You are not what they call the minds eye

You are the “I” in me

2009-09-11T13:41:00.000+05:30

06.09.09----the day that followed

It’s not about how deep the night was.It’s all about what followed.

It’s about getting drenched in September and wondering at every drop like it’s a miracle. It’s about reclining in the backseat of a car at !:00 in the morning..and smiling at violet skies..its about the song struggling out of a roadside radio

~waqt ne kiya kya haseen sitam..

tum rahein na tum..hum rahein na hum..

Its about being centuries of silence apart from the sea . .its about drowning endlessly in it nevertheless. Its about straining to hear the tune heard in a childhood dream or maybe a movie long ago…its about the silent sigh that follows.

Its about being mad like a spring-chased deer in autumn. Its about endlessly searching for the poet..it’s the bliss of being the poet and not having to write.It’s the pain of being poetry ,inexpressible..it’s the need of feeling Keats once again today..it’s the desire to echo Cullen

"John Keats is dead," they say, but I
Who hear your full insistent cry
In bud and blossom, leaf and tree,
Know John Keats still writes poetry.
And while my head is earthward bowed
To read new life sprung from your shroud,
Folks seeing me must think it strange
That merely spring should so derange
My mind. They do not know that you,
John Keats, keep revel with me, too.

2009-07-12T11:23:00.000+05:30

Ketamine had this firm belief she could do without anyone and anything. She could give the slip to reality when it gets too harsh on her. She could shut down the computer and turn her face away from joy and sorrow when she wished. She could leave the city and stop herself from turning the page. She could strain her ears to perceive the infrequent sounds of a new city and forget ‘behind blue eyes’. She could guile random strangers into believing she’s twenty-four and stop the reverberating “young flesh” from piercing her. She could return to the arms of her man after ten days and start everything afresh.

She still believes so…. or at least her pride does.

New Woman

2009-06-23T20:45:00.000+05:30

It was hard to tell if her eyes were bigger or the world which she perceived with them.

For the time being the world was nothing more humongous than the comfortably packed compartment of an afternoon metro, in which she took little interest. The ticket had enamored her entirely.

Many a time over she ran the little index finger across the brown line, which was conspicuously placed between the two sides of white.

Nothing happened.

And crumbling it would be the best punishment for that mundane piece of paper, she thought. The mother on whose lap this little princess was rightfully enthroned immediately rescued that crushed piece of paper from her hand, which happened to be her license to travel underground. The princess however did not consider the occasion to be worthy of her precious tears. The big round eyes now devoid of a singular object started distributing her attention among all her co-passengers-smiling ladies from across the aisle, colorful handbags they tightly pressed against their bosoms, a group of chattering young girls near the gate and finally the bizarre object sitting beside her- ME !

Somewhat like a metal detector the eyes scanned me from hair to knee( she could’ve gone on only that she perhaps considered me unworthy of it) and seemed not so satisfied. In her baby-tongue she rebuking-ly tried to tell me something, which I the lesser mortal could make nothing of and could only ask animatedly “ki??”(What??) She perhaps having realized that it was no good conversing with an ignorant fool then resorted to other means of communication. This time it was the odd-one-out game.

She showed me her bangles which were of a diameter of nothing more than 3cms, then she pointed at her mother’s bangles and even took the pain of bending far right to touch the bangles of the woman to her mother’s right, and then touched my wrist with a look of utter disappointment.

Oh! It was such a shame- I had none.

Next she pointed at her mothers earrings, leaned right to make sure the lady on her right had them too. Considerably satisfied she turned to point at my earlobe.

And there! I failed her again.

The third time it was the bindi, which my fellow competitors had, and I shamelessly lacked.

And that very moment the battle was lost!

The little thing had learnt to identify the WOMAN, the MOTHER with those inevitable ensembles- the bangles, the earrings, the bindi which were essential units of the image of the mother figure on her mind. And this impression on her child-mind was indelible. I, the un-decked, un-jeweled female was as obnoxious to her as a being from outer space. I couldn’t match up to the standards she had set, and so I was nothing of it—not a WOMAN, definitely not a Mother.

I had failed her expectations. Miserably.

Shooh!

2009-06-16T15:32:00.000+05:30

Ingenue Revelations' changing.

Look away!

2009-06-15T22:25:00.000+05:30

Roger reaching port on the 19th! *goeswild*

N.B- This is the 'Rose' phase of the authour, Ketamine is on vacation, Feather was last seen flying eastwards and so Rose shall be corny-ly mushy and mushy-ly adlolescent until BESU commences with their next semester!

2009-06-14T21:32:00.000+05:30

The Rose must remain rooted
And Roger sail.

But they shall meet again,in another 'age'...another 'consciousness'.

2009-06-13T01:55:00.000+05:30

"There'll be no more................aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah"

Postscript

2009-06-13T01:28:00.000+05:30

I shall leave my words for you
But seal the lips
Lest a whimper escape-
Numb the lissome fingers
That worked nights
Count the hours between
And the seas
And a tide of words
That won’t retreat

The island sinks
But the water cannot hold
Murky letters
Have nothing more to unfold

2009-06-01T23:35:00.000+05:30

Spring keeps beckoning spring

And hound the days

that stand between.

........

2009-05-31T12:40:00.000+05:30

With the patience of a dew
That sits on a high-perched leaf
And waits for the early sun to make it shine
And then be devoured before it’s nine,
I’d love to long for you
Wait longer than the dew
And you’d my desire be
But never be mine.

You or/and Me

2009-05-28T23:29:00.000+05:30

You are my emotional bank…but not just that…DEFINITLY NOT. This game is fine. I’ve learnt the tricks and now I can win or lose at will.

I have nothing but these two years …within me….between us. And nothing you do can take that away from me.

You want to add?
Me too.

I loved that evening when we could hold hands without attracting well-fed glances.

I’m a baby you know. I need to be hugged.

I’m a woman you know. I can’t speak my mind.

You are my emotional bank….or maybe not…a SEA! And yes I love this game. Learnt the tricks? Yes, No…Maybe! I’m just happy it’s a two-player game. It’s either you or me.

I’ll be the oleander
Growing beside you
Growing into a woman
Growing into a tree
And I won’t need to be touched
For it would delight me to see
Our shadows close in embrace
Not you. Nor me.

Somniloquence

2009-05-27T19:55:00.000+05:30

We are three of us.
-Me
-Me-
And me.

I’m the eldest one
As old as time can be
Since when have we been walking?
I really cannot say
Since when have they been stalking?
It all seems like yesterday.

Now she cheers, and now she jeers
And the other she fights my fears
What am I ,
Without you two?
My destruction
To you is due

Now she whispers, laughs out loud
Now she falls back on a cloud
-it’s you who laughed
-not me!
-nor I!

Then maybe it was a passer-by.

Now she flutters, loves in vain
Now she breaks her heart again
-It’s me who loved
-and me-
and I

But it’s vain to love a passer-by.
-You are me
-Yes you and I
And we are one
On the other side

-Go to sleep-
And let us die
For we are fake
Like the passer-by

V

2009-05-22T12:10:00.000+05:30

Tears are but water,
more than the heart can hold
And living in it, is the art to learn
from the fish inside a bowl

But when the fish had learnt to
Hide the brine inside her soul
The bowl cracked from brim to base
That which had been her world

Enisled

2009-05-22T12:05:00.000+05:30

Sprinkled words of joy
The pipers’ own decoy
Lost unnumbered days
And then the rainbow fades

Eyes awaken
Dreams die
Lips part
In morbid delight

And words and words with you
And a whole new world with you
And a taste of ‘timeless wine’
And now I stand enisled

An Honest Conversation

2009-05-13T16:12:00.000+05:30

She said:

I could write short lines
Leave my message in between
For you to tamper with it later
But why should I?
My dad paid for my education
And I have 978 character’s left
To say “ don’t leave me or I’ll die”
And since I know that makes no sense
I decided to write a nice poem
With finicky words and have my claim to fame
Now that makes me a cheap poet
You would say, but then nothing’s cheap these days
Let me be.

He said:

I still remember your fingers
Thin, long and slender
Holding the bottle of beer
Like it meant the world to you
And my eye
Hovering over your shoulder
Prying lower, no more a gentleman.
I wish I was high, then prolly I’d say“touch me I think I’ll fly”
and you’ll rhyme your words, your answer
make a poem titled “fly”
I'd gulp down my dissapointment and say
T’was lovely!

The Last note

2009-05-13T16:09:00.000+05:30

Traduce,
I’ll wear it like a crown
Walk down the aisle
Unblemished,but maligned
Gather dust for flowers
Curses for smiles

And when I sit to write,Shall I cry?
Will the paper bear
What the ink shall not say?
Will the world read it?
When I’m on my way?

I’ll leave like the last note
Written in lime
Burn me to see
My story, come alive

Wasteful Bonfire

2009-05-13T16:05:00.000+05:30

I could do without those flowers
like false leaves on autumn twigs,
dressed to accost
another of your kind.
Pretend to be purblind, or ignorant
Of the rubbles from the past
The dawn of Feb and April days….

But why should now
the spring be blamed,
when November
is up in flames?

I could do without those fires
Burn brighter if I choose to
Ignited by impulse
And vexing remembrance
Clandestine ardor, ophicleide lies
Set ablaze by the flames of obstinacy
And you’ll christen me as a wasteful bonfire

Oh Ignorant
Do you not see
The moth in you seeks
Destruction in me?

Insatiable

2009-05-13T16:03:00.000+05:30

A dream
Alate but shackled
Stifled eternally

A hunger
Served ambrosia
Starved no less

An unrest
Fuming entrails
Shelled serene

A passion
Braised for ages
Undone as yet

A love
Deemed dormant
Declared insatiable

Nexus

2009-05-13T15:58:00.000+05:30

A wasted morning, a stale newspaper
it’s too late for the bread and butter
I just want you here with me
And I’ll tell of my morning dream

Why stare at the telephone
Expecting that it would ring?
Why frown at the rocking chair?
When the unrest is deep within?

A train derailed some stations off
And spoiled the day for the busy bees
Some reached late and some were hurt
And someone died with the morning dream

Let it Rain all Night

2008-05-04T17:41:00.001+05:30

It smells like rain today

A dry unrest
A volcanic bed
Needs to be fed

The shadowy curtains roll overhead

Untamed hooves
Tearing through the surface
It's coming for me

Beckoning
Beholding
Benumbing

Let the duel begin.
I’ll contest
I’ll condemn
I’ll Resist
The irresistible

Only as long as I can.

Then I’ll weaken
Withdraw
And implore

Crush me
Conquer me
Enslave me
Complete me
With this defeat

Rip me
Leave me aching
Reduce me to dust
And dust in dust
Let us unite

And then,
let it rain all night.

And Tomorrow they shall smile

2008-05-04T17:36:00.000+05:30

The blue butterfly, died tonight
And the flowers cant stop crying

Lily’s crying, Rosie’s crying ,Tulip’s crying.
Come girls, kiss your friend goodbye

Wipe your eyes, wash your face
Night-queen is shining bright
Its’s time to say goodnight

Say your prayer’s, close your eyes
It would be morning in a while
And shall we not be happy
When the fragile dew would smile

The Rover's Love Song

2008-05-04T17:33:00.001+05:30

A newborn fire
Runs across the land
You know it’s me
And sunshine looks
So sober

A wild wild wind
Tears through the heath
Hear it scream
And all the people
Can’t take over

I can play the wreck tonight
But at dawn I’ll have to hide

Holding you…
Closing in…
Just one vision

Seal it with
Prayers or an
Incantation

Break that door
Come walk with me
To the other side
Where life will
Never be over

Come now make
A truth of the tale
And satisfy
This unquenched
Soul of a rover

I can lure you out tonight
But the dawn will make me hide

Holding still…
Close in still…
Just one vision

Seal it with
Death or an
Amalgamation.

Distorted

2008-05-04T17:24:00.000+05:30

Can't tell
the left from right
the right from left
or just the right
What seemed red
is blue today
And my pet fly
just flew away
I danced with it
the whole night through
But papa said
it was untrue
And that I should
just go to sleep
Drunk?No.
A distorted creep.

BeloveD II

2008-05-04T17:21:00.000+05:30

The distant dusk
now brings my bride
Bedecked bejeweled
by the eventide
Like the endless night
over blinded eyes,
Beloved,
You abide

BeloveD

2008-05-04T17:19:00.000+05:30

Musing on a piquant night
when pillows and feather-beds
don't seem to delight,
I chose to lie awake and dream
of the red nightfalls
that had been.

The pathless space that lay between
Was to be conquered
(So was forseen)
Melting whispers and its vapoury veil,
flavoured the nightfalls
that had been.

But the morning star would wake again
what had been, is now
a distant strain
Yet like a torpid tempest
nestled within
Beloved, you remain.

Emancipated

2008-05-04T17:16:00.000+05:30

Preserved for ages,
Not to be squandered now
And yet the very voice
Leaves all seals broken
And maddened they rush
To drag Phoebus to bed
And another love song ends
Only undone

Now if you say
I want these moments to stay
I’d try to hold the sand
But the grains wouldn’t obey

Deadline

2008-05-04T17:11:00.000+05:30

How come I never had a deadline
How long to stay awake
While the neighbour's kids would go to sleep
before it was half-past eight.

How come you would'nt call me
while the sun went down the drain
briused knees were never that bad
but this scar inside remained

How come you never told me
I could never win this game
no matter how long I stay outside
I'd be a loser all the same

~why did you let me play
why did you let me lose
how come you never said
Baby come home,it's late

~why did you let me play
why did you let me break
Ma,why did'nt you say
Baby come home,it's late

Moving in Circles

2008-05-04T17:08:00.000+05:30

The spell has broken perhaps
Why else do we fight
Alone?
And sound mellifluous
Over the phone?

Why do we talk
about other's?
When much remains
unsaid about us?

Why board the streetcar
take a corner seat
and cry?

The spell has broken perhaps

And I've walked
miles away from you

Only to find
I was moving in circles.

IV

2008-05-04T17:05:00.000+05:30

As a flower dies
Who cares to cry
For the broken heart
Of a butterfly?

One-Act Play

2008-05-04T16:58:00.000+05:30

Enough of sunshine,

Cumulo-nimbus clouds,
patterns,ice-creams melting
noses,angry faces,
flying kites,
kites flying
...............................
Its time for the thunder
time for the storm

Grey warriors
wait in the wings

The stage is set
Let the play begin!

By the Brook

2008-05-04T16:57:00.000+05:30

Sleepy pebbles,
Thrown at the silent water
As they touch the lost dreamer
Ripples surround.

Fallen leaves,
Have sealed their golden lips
You sneak from behind
And throw your arms around

From an Obsolete Fairy-Tale Princess

2008-05-04T16:54:00.000+05:30

Call me
Call my name
I’ve been waiting for you

Open my eyes
Shake off this dream
I’ve been waiting for you

Seasons I’ve slept
Ignorant I’ve slept
Sprinkle sundrops on my face
I’ve been waiting for you

The night has now been spent
The staunchest thorns have bent
Unfold my wings again
I’ve been waiting for you

Whisper those magic words
Into my ears again
Wake me from this stupor
I’ve been waiting for you

Smother

2008-05-04T16:36:00.000+05:30

A gust
Sniffs,and blows away

Vexed
to come back again
to make sure what it had sensed

Culling,
more of its kind
the impatience inside

Brewing,
into a gale to strike,
sword and arm unified

A storm,
bellows and rants,
Strangling its creator

Contained within
Unleashed at last

Bemused

2008-05-04T16:35:00.000+05:30

Those words
Lingering since last night
Now wraps me up.
Bemused,
I’m left to wonder
The words the whispers
The care and caress
Did they leave no mark?
Nails digging into flesh
Flesh rolling against flesh
And the craving of the tissue
Preserved in reminiscence

Elapsed II

2008-05-04T16:26:00.000+05:30

But as I look into the mirror
I know one thing for sure
No matter how well I deck my words
My God would always know

That though the leaves have withered
Their pigment’s fresh inside
That though the storm has crossed the land
The squall I still abide

And as I opened my eyes for spring
Leaves of autumn collapsed
Now do I take this autumn for spring
Or has our spring elapsed?

Revelry

2008-05-04T16:21:00.000+05:30

Talking to the void inside
And so it comes alive
Joining in my revelry
It seems to take delight
Invisible palms shut my ears
Your cries I cannot hear
I’m dancing with my cup of tea
And singing to the chair

Elapsed

2008-05-04T15:04:00.000+05:30

Picking flowers in a thornfield
Looking for the right shade
Now am I being too choosy
Or are the flowers all dead?

Flickering, like the stubborn flame
That’d burn itself away
Trying to burn the wind that blows
So strong, to make me sway

Bickering, with the calm inside
But I just don’t seem to find
The most convincing way to say
You’re no more on my mind

III

2008-05-04T15:03:00.001+05:30

Was ever an ocean
so deep so dark?
Will ever a tear
On this ocean embark?

II

2008-05-04T14:55:00.000+05:30

And years later
There are ripples on the still water
But the tide has been
And never again shall be

I

2008-05-04T14:52:00.000+05:30

As the Rainbow fades
Something glistens in the eye
A speck of dust perhaps
That made me cry

Error

2008-05-04T14:45:00.000+05:30

Rocking to the night-wine
It’s red and black tonight
Star-studded canvas looms large
Hesperus shines among the lesser lights
Cacophony fills the air
Silence has been convicted
Smiling back at those hollow eyes
My social form has been resurrected
Spirit and flesh is served
The effigy keeps consuming
Before it melts in the phony world
It's time to return to Nitrosin

Inamorato

2008-05-04T14:36:00.000+05:30

Savouring this solitude
Idly breathing away
Just the warmth but not the sun
Yet calling it a day
Peeping out now and then
The Piper’s not to be seen
The tune keeps ringing in my mind
Piper, where have you been?

Purple dreams I’ve traded
To cling to your last strain
Left behind my earthly form
To follow this pleasure-pain
What words you weave to entrap me
None perceive your game
And I keep losing to senselessness
Poet, what’s your name?

Delude me no more now
Dusk is on its way
Its time to leave your hidey-hole
Come to me I say
The tunes you’ve piped
Have left me numb
To the words you’ve stringed
I have succumbed
The engulfing charm wouldn’t let me stay
Piper, poet take me away

Last Syllable

2008-03-07T18:43:00.000+05:30

Last syllable, few minutes to go
Morphed feelings ,help me explode
Hang up the weapon, too tired to prey
Pricked by conscience or so they say

Time for a haircut, the head goes with it
Wither away in the April heat
Peal an onion. How else to cry?
Cry your eyes off and hang them dry

Plug in affection,feel being loved
Tired of dancing, dinner is served
Who’s that staring? Open the door
Fatten your lust and let me go.

Price

2008-03-07T17:09:00.000+05:30

Arbitrary fallacies
Clutched tight inside
Erroneous presumptions
Stand to show their might
Disconsolate dressings
Are layered to make a show
What happened to the wounded wings
Who would care to know?

-Beating, flapping
Flapping, faltering
Faltering, pleading
As they stand beside.

-Seeking, dreaming
Dreaming, quivering
Quivering, reeking
Throughout the night.

The Last Dance

2008-03-07T17:06:00.000+05:30

It flickered
And was gone
And darkness
Unveiled
What the flame
Had secreted
So long

They were all here
All the while
And they danced
With me
Round and round
The ring of life
And were gone

Why do they dance
Towards the fire?
Where do they go
When its not there?
How many moths
To quench the flame?
How many deaths
To end this game?

a-Dieu

2008-03-07T17:03:00.000+05:30

Nor a sea, nor a country
Lies within.
The acres that were
Had been conquered.
Religion and treason
Had fought and lost.
The distance,
Diminished by desires

The miles we had crossed
To join hands,
Stretch themselves
Beyond this lifetime.
The times we had saved
For dreams envisioned
Had been offered
To oblivions thirst.

Thus un-building
The card-house,
Which the strongest gales
Left untouched.
And as you set sail
For a distant coast,
My winds promise a land
Of pleasure galore.

Journey

2008-03-07T16:59:00.000+05:30

In the afterglow
Of a darkened star
I tread forward
To an unknown soil
The sack of past
Hangs loose behind
When I think ill drop it
I can hear it cry
And so it keeps
Clinging to me
And so it tricks
My destiny

The cold pebbles
Smirk and smile
At my asinine being
As I pass them by
“What fool is that!”
They seem to cry
‘Beguiled by fate
And lost in time?’

But when I think
Of letting go
That cry from past
Wouldn’t grant respite
“Onward” it says
Into my ears
And I tread on
To the unknown soil

Penance

2008-03-07T16:56:00.000+05:30

Wait
Some months or so
Fake
Some more some more
Make
Love and nothing more
Stretch
But I can’t endure

Try
To keep it whole
Cry
To cleanse the soul
Fight
Against this lust
Lose
To your parole

Eustacia

2008-03-07T16:53:00.000+05:30

What was fated was unfair
What she hated was all she had
What they said was but untrue
Of the witch, the goddess, the girl.
The winds whispered into her ears
The path that was not for her
And passions led her blindfolded
To her wreck, her death, the weir.
What had been had all been lost
What she thought was not to be
But the ‘selfish’ girl was wronged
By time, by love, by destiny.

Damasked

2008-03-07T16:48:00.000+05:30

Come,
Walk beside me
Don’t hold my hand
For I’m carrying her
Who’s found sleep eternal

Listen,
While I tell you,
How she died
The choicest blossom of April
Now in my arms

Cry,
When I tell you
She had to die
For her lust for life
Her want of love

Curse,
The wolf who had kissed her
Back to life
And killed her
Once again

Bleed,
When I tell you
How she bled
When she found
Her God is dead

Blame me,
For I had been there
And stood frozen
While she surrendered
To the pages of demise
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
And now,
She’s dead
It's better so
Let me lie her down
There lies the damasked pearl
Unforgiven and unloved
Forever

Desired

2008-03-07T16:45:00.000+05:30

A bunch of words, dollop of smile
A fresh numbness of a juvenile
A little lost a little sad
As it rains all the while

Cold tea in a broken mug
Tattered bed warm and snug
A little room with a little fire
And someone to hug

"Queer"ies

2008-03-07T16:43:00.000+05:30

When I say a few things
And mean everything
Do you call me a scholar?

When I say nothing
And say that you mean everything
Do you call me a lover?

Better To Be Gone

2008-03-07T16:40:00.000+05:30

And many a day later
She opened her eyes,
To see how much had changed
How much of her remained.

Memories?
They are a fading..
Letters?
Yellowed and damped
Furniture?
Sold in auction
Love?
Replaced and gone

And so she closed her eyes
It was better to be blind.
Its time to take the tunnel
The white haze summons.

Towards

2008-03-07T16:32:00.000+05:30

Wondering,
What it would be like
Hearing the words I’ve always heard
Or have I?

Stifling,
A sob or two
For the chapter that I’m closing down
Or am I?

Trying,
Hard to believe
That I’ll move on, to spring
God ,can I?

salted

2008-01-25T23:22:00.000+05:30

I'm
gashed,
salted,
flavoured and dressed.
Lieng,
in your platter,
Now,
you decide the rest.

D-oped

2008-01-25T23:15:00.000+05:30

I'm shining bright,shining bright like a star.
I'm breathing in,breathing out every hour
And this puff,and this puff's all I care
And in the air,they are like curls in my hair.

I'm feeling great,feeling fine for a while
I begin in tears and then I end in a smile
And in every breath,I feel a shiver down my spine
And in every breath I forget that you're not mine.

I'm writing shit,but cant put my pen down
I'm made of words,the sea of words in which I drown
I'm a poet's wreck,and nothing more as you can see
I'm sorry baby,but then its all thats left in me.

swallow

2008-01-25T23:12:00.000+05:30

Selling,
Murky memories
to new one's,
Strange thoughts
to inhibitions,
Pecking at a
new seed of sorrow,
If the fruits bitter
-I'll swallow.

Fencing,
My Love
from the loved one's
Fresh balms
from incisions
Sipping from a
new glass of pain
If its too sharp
-I'll swallow.

Let's Celebrate

2008-01-25T23:09:00.000+05:30

No one's to be blamed this time
No poor soul ,to be framed,,
the self-same battles been fought and lost,,
Mt.Ego's been reduced to grain.
Now im in midst of a carnival
Feasting on decay
Just needed a reason to spill this wine
Come, let's celebrate!

It had all been so lame till now
All alike and all the same
This "me or she?and he?are we?"
And complains that sound insane
But now im in midst of a carnival
Burning effigies , values and say...
This is a bash for bruises and burns
Come, lets celebrate!