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Showing posts from August, 2015

On killing fields

Mines that had been planted
Under the upper layer
Of the crust,
They could burst
AnydayKilling fields
had made foray
Into homes
nowadaysThey come not
with crops
For crops had
Become wealth of the richThey come in different
garbs
Bayonets have become obsoleteIron pellets are now bred
Mercilessly

Jesus of kolkata

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There  was no red signal
Of prohibition
still stopped sudden
The city which so far had the speed
of storm;
Precariously held on to the road
Balancing perilous on wheels
Taxi and private,tempo, tiger embossed double deckers;All those who raised hue and cry
And came from all sides
Labourers, hawkers, shopkeepers,customers-
They all became part of a still picture
Done by the artist, stuck to his easel;Everyone dumbfounded
Saw how a naked child crossed the road
From one end to another;It had rained a few hours ago
At the chowringhee;Now the light had pierced through
the clouds
Kolkata seemed to be flooded by illusory light;Peering out of the window of state bus
Saw the face of the sky and saw you too;Son of a mother
Beggarly
You the Jesus of KolkataStopped the traffic by your spell;The screaming millions,
The teething and gnawing of impatient drivers
Did not deter you;You walk through
The passage
with death on both sides,
Like someone learning to walk,Like humanity incarnate
too glad to l…

Kwalkhu, a glimpse,

The alley that went away
From the chowpatty
Had houses on both sides
Their red brown bricks
Without any trace of plaster
Looked distinctively
Ancient...
The doors were big
with bolts placed diagonally,
Had those who lived inside
caught on the siesta?
But the wheels were taking those houses
away too,
And the dust and rubbles were getting settled
On trousers and hands and faces...Kwalkhu
would be away soon,
But that memory of that alley,
That colored paper flagged one,
Would remain.

'Not all who wander are lost'

Not all
Are lost
though they
wander the most
From one end
To another,They wander
But they don't get lost.

Some postcards...

I can say I cannot take you
To the place where I wish to go
But I can always send you
Breath of chinars covered with snow,It is such a beautiful sojourn
To be drowned in the tenderness
of leaves forever falling soft
On the rugged earth's cold surface,I can say I see the face of children
Not mortified by the shadows of guns
I can always send you post cards
Of larks and flock of homing pigeons.

Hiking

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I would be totally wrong If I would say I did not long For Luke to come and call me out For a hike through the most dense fog The weather would be cutting through us And we would be right there at the stop for the bus Luke would take a swig and check on the camping gear The mountain stream would be running close and near Colored colony of trouts and shells Would be visible through the greenish blue water without fail And Luke would make a stick a fishing rod And we would be catching more than we would've thought And then we would grill them And sprinkle salt  Making a feast of what we would've got It would be a good ol' hiking for a day Luke,me and a fair weather of May.
(Photo: 'Painted', )