I owe to them,

The songs of mountain-springs,
And those trees that breathe life
Amidst dust,
I owe to them,
Those roads
Which take mind to flutter
And add wings to heart,
That landscape
Where little lines
And rows of blossoms
With blessings
Of woodnymph
Unfurl life
In its pure
And natural symmetry,
I owe to them,
That corporeal frame
Which had made
World ,the finest place,
For generations
To live, to sing,
To put meaning
Into everything,
And that sylvan wanderer of a river,
That had made hundreds
To paint, to ruminate,
To muse words
From depth of a transcendence,
And to feel the tranquil presence
Of the living soul,
Filled with gleams
Of thoughts,
I owe to them,
That sensation
Of equating rhythm
With the passage of seasons,
That idea ancient and omnipresent,
To be united with that kindred spirit
That binds each and every particle
Animate , inanimate to follow the grandest design,
And make the universe
To move with poetic task,
I owe to them.

Radioactive,

We are into the Great Collider,
And protons would make a burst,
We are nearing to our end of days,
We are going to make it to the last,

We are into a channel of a tube
And soon we would tear us apart,
We are heading to meet the particle of God
We are going to glow horrific and smart,

We are radioactive now
That our skins have fallen off,
We are up for a great show
We are going to challenge the full stop.

The portico,

It had been our favourite place,
The portico,
The pebbled way
Leading to the door,

Those earthern tubs,
Those saplings,
Marigolds and jasmines of Aunt's,

It had been our place
To play the entire day,
Running around,
Yelling heart out,

That magnolia tree
Had seen us all, frolicking
And puffing smoke
Our ways of becoming
Finally men
Unguarded,

And those railings
Were our bars,
We had the habit of hanging
From them,
Swinging our legs,

How time passed and flowed
We didn't have the scope to think,
We were thoughtless,
We were young,
And we had the portico
And summer afternoons.

Just let it be,

If the evening sings
Songs of love,
And sweet scent of rain
If the breeze carries
to your bylane,
Think not of me,

Just let it be,

If the clouds come down
On your floor,
If the wind knocks hard
At your door,
Think not of me,

Just let it be,

If few big dollops fall
On your window,
And if you hum a tune
Of a rock, tender and slow,
Think not of me,

Just let it be.

Spring summer collection

You would spend more time
To deck your self up for summer spring nights,
You would wear lemon peels
All over your face,
You would match up your cotton block prints
With songs of baul singers,
Your ear rings would become stars
Of lucid poetic evenings,
You would stretch your legs on grass
You would like a dryad the time pass,
By your feet would sprout little lilies,
And a chaplet would you probably wear,
Spring summer would come then here,
That I know,
That I know.

Acrylic

At the sunset,
Colorful buckets
Poured on the western part
Of the sky,
The yellow orb
Made a splash
Into the greenery,

I looked at the end
Of the day
How it turned
The brown clay red,
The colors how it sprayed
On the townfolk,

Balloons and various water cans
Hang in shops
And boxes of colors neatly kept
For buyers had mica dust
Silvery,
Long queues at sweet sellers'
Counters complete the rest
Of the emerging picture,

They all smell
Like festival,
They all smell acrylic.

Coverpage,

The scene
Had the elements
Of a coverpage
As if done with utmost care
By someone spending nights and days,

Reflection of twinkling stars on water
And bulbs of distant citylights
Simmering like straightlines
Gradually sinking, a sketch of pastel finish,

Long trees nearby
And a simple cottage
With a bamboo fence
Added to the spatial frame

A road having a braided pattern
Ran into the woods
Where angels come to play
Mandolins

A coverpage
It was .

Emancipation of poetry,

The passage of the afternoon
Of a spring, usually remains such,
Under feet the wizened leaves
And from above the screen of a light
Coming down on everything,
Slowing and stretching the day
To the hilt of softened rays,
That all around lucidity paint,
Only to be assimilated and sensed
And turned into something
Even more wonderous, sensory a thing,
Outworldly.

Today is a different day

'Today is a different day
What do you say?'
Asked her,
And she flashed the most beautiful smile
I ever got to see,

'Today I got no work
Nowhere to go,
Nothing to run for,
What do you say?'
Asked her,
And she flashed the most beautiful smile
I ever got to see,

'Today I would be
The King
And you my Queen be,
Today we would walk down the sea,
What do you say?'
Asked her,
And she flashed the most beautiful smile
I ever got to see,

For today is a different day.

Is there any other better way to hail thee?

Is there any other better way
To hail thee, Spring?
Looking down the clear sky of the morning,
With branches of trees
Spread up wide and far
Dreaming birth of newest leaves
To fill thy choir,
And songs heavenly as they are
Scattering pearls through the mild air,
Is there any better way
To hail thee, spring,
Looking down the birth of a day
Through the pavillions of a morning?

Windtalking to Spring

A mild hint of rain in the air
And the setting sun blazing from far
And silhouetted buildings hiding away
Dreams and songs of another day,
Is how I think One hath conjured a clime
Of spring making inroads to city mine,

The flowing wind whispering into my ears
'Way Back To Love 'softly declares,
And down the road I take a dip
Where wind promises of the season keeps.

An artist and his five canvases,

He called himself
An artist who is forever in love,
His bald head
And white beard
And moustache thick and drooping
Eyes had many things said,

'Look at my canvases...
They are my life...'
He told me
As I like a naive
Thought to find his works in his eyes,

The first canvas
Had a woman looking up
To the sky,
Her hands were red
Blessed with a flower placed
Right in the middle of her origin,

Next was a rustic scene,
A wasteland green
And a palm tree,
And a sun,
Red,

The third was almost a photograph,
A sylph like figure in curtain wrapped,
Black and white mystic and mature,

The fourth canvas had a definite lure
Of political decadence,
Corrupted hearts in bags tied by ropes,
And people falling down the slopes
To meet vernal fire,

The fifth one was like a pilgrimage
To the sand banks where Nissim
Once found his grace,

He called himself
An artist forever in love,

And I like a naive
Thought to find it all in his aged eyes.

(Based loosely on P. Karmakar's artworks. This prolific painter passed away on 24th feb, 2014. This scribble is a tribute to the artist extraordinary )

Is it not a celestial affair?

When for you I crave,
I make you Calliope,
And the sky is where
We meet, like little stars,
We greet each other
And smile twinkling,

Is it not a celestial affair?

When you for me long
You turn me a song,
And the air is where
We meet, like music,
We greet each other,
And with tunes we us cover,

Is it not a celestial affair?

a tryst with an afternoon of spring.

Had I not in such love been
Of thy beauty, Queen of Spring,
The afternoon would not have carried
Such corns and grains in sheaf,
Golden as left on the field
and lustrous like Proserpine,

I find You as Core
of Beauty everlasting
and also as a cause of poetic out pour,
as I hear thy indulgent swing
Making cuckoos to sing
Merrily with spontaneous ease,
Making the afternoon so sleepy,
Turning slow the movement of shadow
of trees on ponds so lively, green,

I find thy rustling wave conversing
with leaves of varied colors, mild and striking,
I smell pollens in the air,
those tiny floating particles yellow,
like adornment to Your flowing hair,
I succumb to thy lazy haze sweet
which has always made birds to chirp and tweet,

And from winter I tread towards
a season of generation and honeycombs.

You I knew then would have arrived...

Anticipating thy love extraordinary
stopped under that lemon tree,
little greenish white blossoms
where like dots of intoxicating smell
kept me standing every spring of my life, felled,

a few yards away the huts of the village folk
had shed light dim opening a sequence of a country scene,
somewhere a radio had a muffled broadcast
of songs of phalgun and mango buds,

You, I knew then
Would have arrived,
through my Circle of Life.

little beads

We took a seat, side by side,
you, me and a starry night,

and poetry came silent,unhurried,
with jingling bells tied loose to her feet,

and
      words
                 fell
                        upon
                                  us,
        like
             little
                  beads
                         luminous,

And we like children be-mused ran,
to catch them showering on our lands.

 

Hidden (Aral)

At this hour of night,
when the avenues had gone off to sleep, outright,
Those trees and birds, that yellow colored apartment,
outhouses-all when to the kingdom of sleep went,
from my writings were flowing away to you
waters forests mounds, railgates,courts,bazaars, school, verandah,
flowing away from me they all,
those talks of seas, bushes, shrubs,
flowing away to you they all,
those songs of roads, quiet sips from tea cups,
and that sadness which only grips one leaving the town;

now I am hiding away myself;
now I am breaking down on the last line;
now I can not simply stop and keep hidden
another breaking dawn,
now that morn is going to you,
to your sleepy window
with light in her hands.

(it is a transliteration of a poem titled " Aral", by Nibedita Acharya.)

I have been living...

I have been living
As lives a dream all through,
I have been singing
As sings a poem for You,
I have been writing
As writes a cloudy indolent day,
I have been painting
All that can a drizzle possibly say,

I have been walking
Down the known unknown streets,
I have been cycling up
Where songs my feelings meet,
I have been riding
Wonders of a tattooed mind,
I have been watching
Clouds sailing where they wings always find,

I have been hoping
To gather the moisture of air,
I have been smelling
Springfield's tuneful care,
I have been swinging
As swing and tremble freshened leaves,
I have been flowing
As flows the wet happy breeze.

When I love You...

When I love You
You become the creator
And I too,
And we stand up to stop
Bombs that on Syria drop,
And molotov cocktails
We drink them bellyful
To defuse them without fail,

When I love You
I become the annihilator
And You too,
And we stand up to erase
Fears and tears from aggrieved days
And hot lead of molten bullets
We put into our hearths
And by them our rooms we decorate.

Bookish

When the air is so filled with songs,
And the flowers with scent of spring
When knowledge of civilisation bring,
I turn to streets walked by my past,
Where in books old covered with dust,
Memories stay so beautifully written,
Memories of finding her, Eidyia of my heart,
How she took me to go hunting for words,
From Lotos eaters to Dubliners,
How in silence of library, like a church,
For the scripts and slokas,  I made a search,
How through pigeon holes on the wall,
Sun rays on hands and paper slanted, did fall,
And how the aroma of books, napthalene balls,
Filled the rooms of our hearts that Spring, a windfall...

I walk through those streets unscrolled,
Calligraphic letters where reveal stories untold,
The coffee shop at the corner, a century  old,
There still I find derelict, motheaten, cold,
There I remember by writings on the wall
Youths with fire in heart how added numbers to the toll,
There I recollect, surprised and dismayed
How the city had grown from her days bullet ridden, frayed,

From fratricide, I move on,
To the passages, alleys, where literature
Boldly propagation of humanity declares,
And Eidyia, there I discover, again,
From Oceanus and Tethys, risen.