Friday, October 17, 2008

Did you spend a night?

(Art courtesy Shriparna Sarkar. A friend, an artist and an ordinary oddball)


At arms distance,
my spirit waves its
hand to you


The clown
licks his fake nose.
It is his Dylan's harmonica.



Why do you hide in a clown,
on each night?
Do you think of old tales
and weep in your gin glass?

Look my spirits
wear new perfumes.
Smell with that red.



My clown is my disguise,
like your spirit.

My balms are for you.
to grow on you.

Why don't I see
the paint on your face?
smeared and wet.

The convalescences I cooked.
The massage I gave.
the music I created.

Did not you spend a dark day?



The blue light
shimmered on your tuna.

Our body ached of,
pain and perfume.
only once.

You wept and laughed,

Did I trouble you,
in one cold December?
I never burnt those firewood.

Their fire crackers,
burnt my cigarette.
Their pitchers,
drowned my hash.

They were voyeurs.


My ringmaster,
am I not strong a drug?
They search for me in dark alleys and brightly lighted chemist houses.
Smother and simmer.

I did tell them to do it.
I laugh and smirk with the pain of your
moonlit shadow.

This night is Guernica.



Lady of few words.

You can hear the night pass by,
with people tuning in
to the radio.
in camps which were restricted.

you closed your eyes,
and fed the orange butterflies.
And the audience of the station,
spent their night with you.

Why did you still return,
to mix your broth into the gin
and drink it like the chalice water?

You were not made by the woodman
or the carpenter.

The night is younger,
the night burns.



The words entangle,
with the pendulum.
They elude me,
like the clouds who eat the moon every night.
Like the fishes which jump and hang,
upside down on the water.

Don't you see me crying?
and yet I spent the night with you.

I'm my own spirit.
My attire is my ghost.
I burst out with my cocktail.
I danced to the fire, you
made with feathers and vodka.
I cooked the turkey.

And, I swept the blood on the couch.



And, still I say.


Wednesday, October 15, 2008


who do you love,
when you remember that the stars which
rain on the black void?

Do you think of the white paddy fields,
which sway
to the bloodbath?

Let me tell you woman,
I have seen nylon bullets
pierce your existence.
Why must you live then?
Why must not you cry?


do you still please the Rabbi?
sing to him,
songs of Rumi and love?

Whom do you think of,
when he the Rabbi declares himself,
to be the,
And, then explores you.

Don't you hate,
your sadist uncle for once?
He who sold you to him,
after making you a bloody Eve?

soothe my girl", he said
and dissapeared into the blue air.

did not you study Pseudolus?

Pray, Rabbi.


My woman,
welcome to the land of imageries.
Do you see yourself in the molten mirror?
Do you see the blood diamond,
on the cold head?

The far away woods,
call the sepentine laws to them.

Your diamond is lost.

Then why does your neck,
still smell of the
stealth and hunger?

do you have the answer?


The bosoms are like the enemy lines,
you feel brave,
yet timid,
the senses are like the no man;s land.
you remain so confused.

My woman,
they are fighting over nuclear and automobile
Do you see the anger?
do you remember the Rabbi's floral smell,
in such a day?


I remember the Rabbi's song,
in a stormy, dusty day,
Your farewell song.
But girl,
I'm your friend,

Do you remember?
the talks and the debates?
of uncles and freaks?


they who think,
never think.
The Rabbi who thinks he thought,
is thinking.


Woman, girl, female.
Whatever you are.
I killed the Rabbi.
Do you remember me now?

will you remember me?
After your farewell.

Tuesday, August 5, 2008


He has seen them,
seen those wars build great legacies.
He felt her,
sensed her create songs.

He saw those little kids,
jumping on the
springy skeletal remains of the burnt couch.

His eyes have seen,
two trees,
fighting for space on the river side.
His heart has cried for the river,
that flowed in ambiguity.


One brilliant summer,
he was sent to the Bahamas
He swam with the wild men,
and he saw the love in the water.

He talked to himself,
named himself,
Mister Me.


His little home,
by the miner's den,
was a dream like figure.
It ate prostitutes by night,
and drank the men playing cards,
in the noon.
And,when Me was not somewhere else,
it smiled.

He was sent for the War,
came back injured;
brought home a bride as well.
He works in the Postal now.
she sells potatoes and herself,
in the market these days.

His children smoke,
in their garage,
and practise rock with the neighbourhood junkies.

They prefer the stone game as,
and still do not wear full length trousers on their own.


The burnt couch,
was brought,
(Me does not remember if it was bought),
from the Gulf country.

He lost half of his letters,
he works works as a gardener now.
His wife is in the same job.
His kids,
one ran away to the Rockies.
The other,
is sick now.


and caprice,
his jobs varied just like his mind.


his grave stone stands tall,
his house is a grave yard now,
peddlers meet here by night.

His wife died of the disease.
His son never returned.
The other one,
opened a rehab.


The grave reads,
"To Me".

Thursday, July 3, 2008

Ressurection of the Musical Ghost

with a guitar,
between his legs;
he sings.
she loves.

"where do you put your lips?"
he puts them on the lip of the hour glass.
he smells.
he visualises.

Red star dimly diminishes,
becomes the white land.
and the hour glass shatters on the string less guitar.

And then,
the sandy wind blows over the silky magic.
and the lovers part under it,
to sing two songs.

and then the harmonica,
bleeds on the iron violin.
sweet ,sweet.
by gone baby!

Cigarettes and cocaine,
my harp has become sane.
the ghosts come and sing me lullabies,
stories of slumber and dream.

blurry visions of the sub conscious.

Leonard, Leonard.
Dylan and misDylan.
love the others as well,
my strings burn.

produce the lover,
produce the music.
sleep her songs.

My music god never,
you never sing,
my art god,
never loves.

he dreams Jibanananda singing with Freud.

My music is a ghost,
tends to die.
but each time the ears sing to them,
they come alive.

Wednesday, June 18, 2008

Flight of the High Priestesses

She flees,
runs to the red valley.


High priestesses,
antimony in her hand,
blood stains on her long flowing robes.
She has fled from the bleeding ship,
which lied wrecked on a pregnant sea.


She crosses,
the broken bridge that flowed over the,
still water.

the water called sacred.

In the stone wonder,
the image stands still.

Back in the blueness,
the silvery images of fleeting moisture,
the surreal thought,
drunk with the fruit of the clouds and the air;
the smelly earth rises to the sarcastic sun.

The jewels form the womb of the empty space,
hangs ubiquitously,
gesturing few inanimate emotions.
Unknown the the happiness below.

the happiness that saw,
visage of pink tears.


Friday, March 7, 2008


A frozen clock,
by the passing second.

Life is like a cold volcano,
stopping abruptly.

once took over the volcanoes,
and created histories.

A history called humans.

a smudge of fresh paint,
on the bland wall.
it later scrubs off by the
wind of limitation.


It is a museum,
one that floats somewhere in the infinite void,
of thoughts and rotten,red wounds.

(the very wounds that opens up,
when time stops.)

It's a museum of dolls.

A bewitched doll,
with bloody eyes and blue limbs.
One on squeaking,
and when laid to rest it,
then when the doll is stabbed,
blood on the clock.
the hands stopped moving,
second remained


is a lover's paradise hung upon eternity,
singing the song of lonely,
and narrating tales of empty,

It is also like a,
nuclear weapon.
(over which you have more wars than with it)


Time can make you feel like a,
empty beer can;
thrown on a white dull beach,
lined by freshly chopped grey trees;
which swayed to the blue sun and the distant ship,
by the monotonous waves.

Life now becomes the grey.


with time the ancient warriors got buried in the mud,
and their arms,
got polished for the next crusade.

with time red roses turn white,
and honey bees throng to the cactus.

as time flows,
the river of melancholy dries up, revealing the dry truth.

with time,
time changes.


Time says.
this has to stop here.

time says this has to stop here.

Tuesday, January 15, 2008


"By night an atheist half believes in God."
-Edward Young

The crawler makes its way,
through the grey road.

The darkest of it's kind,
creates a magic spell on each leaf,
that flutters in the silent wind.

The moon shines,
with an unusual glory.
It's a glory of mistrust between the two worlds.
One that seeks to live and love.
The other that fights to seek an existence.

The calmness of the night,
was stolen by the dark envy.
An envy that robs the,
trees of it's right to live.
And the right to greenness.

Small pieces of the night,
stitch together and weave magic to a pungent perfume.

Floating limbs of evil forces,
grasp the melancholy of the earth,
to liven the damn spirits of

Nott remains unsuccessful,
in her attempts to bring her night back.
The Wiesel guy,
penned it down what it was like.

It was a night of happier things too.

The rickshaw-puller smoke his lustful pot,
and for once he relaxed,
to the tunes of the Baul that hummed in the record player,
left by some guest the other day.

It is also when people,
discover each other.

The trees communicate in silence.
And talk of welcoming the rains,
and bearing the pains.

The night shelters itself in a vast expanse,
pretending to be some kind of a treacherous beast,
that makes prophecies or wars and crimes.

Night is when the people rest,
and the dreams work to make him,
alive next morning.
Night is when man is what he becomes the next morning.

The sun paints the canvas,
and plays with the colours a little later.
It weeps and departs and promises,
a revengeful return.

(Nott is the Norse Goddess of Night,
Elles Wiesel is an author who wrote a book named "Night",talking about the Nazi treachery)

Wednesday, January 9, 2008

Station Story

The wind,
the stale wind,
blew with an unusual temptation.
The bitter taste of rekindled happiness was gushing by.

The sound of the engine,
(the very engine that killed a farmer yesterday)
split the uncommon silence;
in two halves.

The desolate paddy grounds,
danced to the beast's song.
The water-channels trembled with,
the chill of the sound.
And also of the evil night.

A night that bore women's cries,
and the men's laughter.
The one that,
hides the stars in it's thick blanket.

The empty moonlight,
mixes with the,
billowing smoke of the engine.
And creates a supernatural being.


The small,
nearly negligible railway station,
shook to the beats of the chuffing engine.

The rusted plates,
gallantly read the name of the small place.

On the lone concrete slab,
sat a boy.

The sight of the monster,
was greeted by a brilliant gleam
in his innocent eyes.


The moor,
the dark moor,
which was on the other side of the station,
gently hummed.

The rail lines vibrated ,
at the eerieness.

The glow-worms flew about,
in the infinite darkness,
pretending to be messengers of God to show light during perennial darkness.

Silent echoes of the,
Great War rode in the confused air.

The village ,
across the dry paddy fields,
slumbers on the modest,
cold clay floor.

The houses are apparently,
prominently marked.
Lamps light on the window sill.

One stood dark,
with a weeping lady inside.


The boy in the station,
sat in the shimmering cold,
acknowledging the arrival of the loud train.

It was that time of the year again.
For the jawans at the front it was,

Another false hope.

The gentle giant roared by,
infusing life in the otherwise dead station.

The boy trudged home,
crossing the narrow brook,
which carried the black water from the village.

The sun was playing hide and seek with,
the distant mountains.

Hope and Despair,
tossed the small family in it's gruesome palms.

The tale continues every full moon night.


The cold flame,
lights up the dormant hope each night like this,
The hot wind created,
in a jiffy,
sucks the flame,
into the ifinite silence.

And the boy,
The boy trudged home,
crossing the narrow brook,
which carried the black water from the village.