I speak like silence.

Last

2009-03-26T11:03:00.000-07:00

I lost my poem,
lost long back.

I wish I never find it,
things of blue-black origin
search for it,
I lost my poem.

- - -

It is just not coming,
not even when I wriggle my insides,
not even when I rack my senses.
It's gone.

Lines are cliched,
sand is white.
Love is not over,
lines are.

- - -

This probably ends here.
Spaces and corners,
are filled with,
fluids of emptiness.

Emptiness is filled with,
all I never knew,
is what I do not.

- - -

Farewell.

Riddles.

2009-01-02T09:21:00.000-08:00

Prologue.

And, yet.
They talk of people, shivering beside the ring,
with liquids in their hand.
I wonder whether any stars will fall today.
My wish is a waste.

I

I know your hideous shadows,
so well,
just like Master Humour knows Twain.

I move with my avant-garde thoughts,
knowing it's difference and progression.
May be that's why the moon seems to be a smirking ghost,
who shrinks as the witch sulks.

II

If you want an epilogue,
go to the masters.
As young men,
do when they die.

If you want some lines,
look at mercury lapped objects.
The astrologers will explain the riddles on your fore head,
later.

If you die thinking,
you were never rich.
If you die dreaming,
you were rich.
And,
be both if you die trying.

III

I created poems.
out of the wind and out of deadly alleys.
I create fire,
out of the poems I create in my smoke filled nude thoughts.

Today,
I lose my voice with the fall of her strand.

Neruda's lines,
seem happier at such times.

Today at college,
I saw the cloth swimming over National Instruments.
I wonder again if it was ever done in remembrance.

Today,
my vote goes down too.
I try to get it out of the never to change,
another idiot box.

Twist and twist,
dig and dig,
for I always confuse it with R.

This,
still isn't a politically motivated
poem.
It's illusion.

I created this out of the wind and the black fire.

IV

I sang a song to my self,
long back.
I saw her in the song.

After few days,
I won't be there.
She'll be off to Isles.

I hope the song would still burn then.
May, the music never bid a farewell to you.

Compassion.

V

Today,
I saw the old lady coming again,
asking for money.
His son was admitted in the ICU for the past one year.
Since when did doctors become so kind?

Today,
I had a dream.
(Although I'm no King)
I was sleeping among visions.

You may call this conglomeration.
It's not.
Lust, it is

Let's create and recreate,
edited memories.
Let us enter into a virtual world of realities.

They do not claim to write the saddest lines tonight,
or be as timeless as the Natore girl.
They are just off springs of magic,
who rise from the embers.

VI

This is disorientation,
the wind is stale and the fire is out.

Today,
she lost my guitar.
The tune is no more.

Epilogue

Visions are not a man's choice,
they are of his mind's.

Neo-logistics do not rule,
if you see well.

I see wind and black fire.

Did you spend a night?

2008-10-17T03:23:00.000-07:00

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

Man

At arms distance,
my spirit waves its
hand to you

***

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

***

Man

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.

***

Girl

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.
And,
the music I created.

Did not you spend a dark day?

***

Man

The blue light
shimmered on your tuna.
Convalescence.

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

You wept and laughed,
hiccups.
Music.

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.

***
Girl.

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.
Now,
I laugh and smirk with the pain of your
moonlit shadow.

This night is Guernica.

***

Man.

Lady of few words.

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

And,
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.

***

Lady.

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.

***

Man

And, still I say.

.........

Rememberance

2008-10-15T00:57:00.000-07:00

Woman,
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?
Girl.

-----

Female,
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,
Messiah?
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?

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

Rabbi,
did not you study Pseudolus?

Pray, Rabbi.
pray.

-------

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?

Rabbi,
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
disruptions.
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?

------

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

-------

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

But,
will you remember me?
now?
After your farewell.

Mr.Me

2008-08-05T08:27:00.000-07:00

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.

***

Obscure,
and caprice,
his jobs varied just like his mind.

***

Today,
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".

Ressurection of the Musical Ghost

2008-07-03T10:30:00.000-07:00

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

Traitor,
"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.

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

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

And,
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.

Flight of the High Priestesses

2008-06-18T00:49:00.000-07:00

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.

***

Time

2008-03-07T07:31:00.000-08:00

A frozen clock,
melting,
by the passing second.
Time.

Life is like a cold volcano,
stopping abruptly.

Time,
once took over the volcanoes,
and created histories.

A history called humans.

Time,
a smudge of fresh paint,
on the bland wall.
And,
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,
bleeds,
and when laid to rest it,
smiles.
And,
then when the doll is stabbed,
blood on the clock.
the hands stopped moving,
second remained
Time,
continues.

***

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

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.

Night

2008-01-15T09:31:00.000-08:00

"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
Golgotha.

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)

Station Story

2008-01-09T09:44:00.000-08:00

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.
Fear.

__

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,
Homecoming.

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.

Sunken

2007-12-22T22:33:00.000-08:00

First Chapter

On the mountain peak,
the place of the unkown birds and the hot snow.
There lies a filthy soul.
A lost soul.
A lonely one.

Near the banks of the river,
the one they called holy and yet let everything down,
sits quitely a refused soul.
A lonely soul.
It's then when he calls it:
"My River"

The waves wahsed away the castles.
His dreams were "Sand Dreams".

Second Chapter

For days he waited for a shoulder,
a shoulder to support his burnt head.
The head which had eyes,
that saw the confusions galore.
The head that had ears,
which heard the foul men speak.
The head,
that symbolized loneliness.

Doors remained shut,
and windows sealed.
There wasn't an answer to ,
the solemn pleas.

Third Chapter

Brainwashed,
the psychedelic mind works like a pendulum;
Swerves into the deep interiors
and comes out again.
He is a horologist's dream.

His thoughts enter his shallow heart,
to bounce back again.
It's a devil's dream.

Final Chapter

He must find a friend,
a soul to relax with.

The rocking chair relaxes in the outdoor sun.

He finds a shadow that bleeds,
the one that has been roaming for a companion too.

He finds himself.

The Gain of Pain

2007-12-22T22:09:00.000-08:00

When the soul burns,
tears are acids that,
flames the effigies of love.
And when you know the only medicine is,
Death.

It's a game of dance on Mars' fires.
It'sa rhapsody of lateral thought.

***
The ancient eagle flew from miles away,
suffered bruises in the brutal rainforests,
burns over the magical sand,
of the hot desert.
And was numbed in the evil Siberian cold.

The bird has an unquenched throat,
longing for the polluted rain.

***

The distant howling,
echoes in the hollow interiors of the black fores,
that hit hard in it's lost senses.

The dead vulture,
perches atop the dead,broken tree,
feasting in the alive langur,
in some land,
a morbid land.

The voices that spoke tyranny,
continue to yell through echoes.

***

The fingers that swayed the cradle,
now picks up the broken cradle,
and cries at the broken baby.

The horrific lullaby that was once sung,
now rekindles a new desire.
To sleep again.

The illuminated eyes,
speak of a dark inside.

Led Zeppelin is sung,so is Maiden.

It's an experience,
It's a teacher.
Pain is what makes a person at times.

***

Pain is when the infant cries,
whilst the mother earns money and pleasure.

Pain is also when the baby dies.

Pain is your heat,
when it bleeds.
Pain is more when it is stiched.

Pain was also when Chaplin wore Hitler's moustache.
Pain is when Holocaust haunts

Pain is when the reddest of blood is spilled by,
the scarlet sarcasm.

Pain is when you read these lines.

***

The lullaby was the last one,
he ever heard.

The greatest pain.

(The name of those two metal heads is a reference to Led Zep's Babe I'm Gonna Leave You and Maiden's Dance of Death)

The Nomad Woman

2007-12-19T10:40:00.000-08:00

With a subtle difference in thought,
she travels with time,
flies with the moon;
and floats with the dragons.

She's a woman of forgotten centuries,
a woman of holy wars,
and violet visions.
A girl of gentle curiosity.

Her hair flutters in the air,
like the golden histories that,
tell a tale of silver mysteries,
of mystical nymph and hollow sand dunes.

She is built by lengthy tunes of the sitar,
and the humble strike of the church bell.
She is surrounded by metallic trees,
and void walls.

It's like the honey dew on the dead corpse.
The killer smile on the vivacious lips,
and the red senses that murder theories.
It's about abstract pragmatism.

She's a modern day witch.
She works with cracked bulbs and molten ash.
Her thoughts are nude and volatile.
Her talks are of old streets and new wine.

She's of the third kind.
The one that slices temptations of the blue mind.
It's also about the one that rule the planets,
the other planets.

She races against the old horses,
which saw many crusades on the desert.
These were summer wars,
fought in the evil winter.

These are not stories or rumours.
These are women who ruled the smoked world.
They rode men with great fantasies.
These were men of the summer land.

She had breasts that smelled of light poison.
She had the vigour that made the adams die,
who later rose under the sand,the hollow sand;
and drank the water that floated.

The wind that blew in the heavy air;
carried with itslef a spirit of envy.
The women,the men and them.
It's the wind of civilization.

She ain't any Cleopatra,
niether the slain Joan of Arc,
or the horrible witches of Shakespeare.
She is unique.

Alcohol percolates her senses,
and the drink of glory,
entwines herself with what the Romans;
called Breast in heaven.

She also visits abandoned forts and grey forests,
that once bowed to the horrible fire.
She is a girl,she is a woman.
She is you.

The Nightwatchman

2007-12-19T00:58:00.000-08:00

Back in the other land,
(the land of Ganjas and the gods)
there is a mountain where the men graze.
There is a river where the blood melts and the snow flows.

There's also a small hut,
where the old man puffs,
where the women relentlessly cry,
where the goats bleed.

In the younger times,
the boy roamed about during the sun's reign.
Now,
parades the narrow alleys,
when there stars rule with the
monotonous tune.

***

of stick,the pointed cap and the whistle,
and the ironical torch.

***

The eerie company of the night,
changes its colours.
It's sweaty,wet sometimes and is comfortably chilly.
The stars grin with a white shine.

The cracks at the post,
runs after the dogs.
He doesn't realize,
his heart burns.

***

The two circles of smoke,
smothers in the blue air,
and unites somewhere
in the vast blue-white unity.

He picks up the half done bidis,
our old man prepares his own puff.

They offered loads for his sister,
but he did not give up smile,
for red tears.

***
The silvery wrap of the moon,
creates a magnificent illusion.
The stick becomes a bewitched wand.
A wand that kills the night.
The whistle forms an eerie call,
the call of the wild.
The rotten call.

The pariahs turn into,
howling and bleeding wolves.
The houses , the angry buildings,
convert to monsters of today.

The blunt faced man,
becomes a royal guard.

There are several kings that repose.

***

In the confused land,
tears wipe tears.
Cannabis consoles the heart.

Something was cheaper than water.

The other boy is growing up,
a shameful town is gearing up.

It's a tale of grit and self-proclaimed,
glory.

***

The petty thief is never caught,
eludes each try.

He was caught on one black day.
New moon night.
The night watchman wasn't there on duty.

The next night saw another boy,
magician.
From the same land.

The land of untold mysteries,
land of told complexities.
where hell and heaven is the same place,
where the men are not the citizens.

The Birthday Poem

2007-12-06T03:08:00.000-08:00

She stands undaunted with the clearest of thoughts,
She roams wildly with the swiftest of feet.
The chill in the wind caresses her gentle chin,
the emotions in her heart plays with her brain.

The leaves rustles on her silken hair.
The green of the forest shines on her crystal like eyes.
The meandering,nearly dry jungle stream is livened,
with the reflection of her being.

The distant fox howls in the cold night,
the moon gleams a white smile on through the dark clouds.
She stands undaunted with the clearest of thoughts.
She gazes on time's face with the cutest of smile!

She blinks and misses,
the night just kissed her.
The looks around searching for answers,
She's different.

The onslaught of memory creates a void.
It's about the Dalis,the Warhols and the Kahlos.
The persistence of endeavour makes her special.
It's about the Roses ,the petals and the rain-drops.
And also the about the Monets.

The sparkling eyes create an illusion,
She sits silently.
She has grown an year more.

(This was a just a request from a friend to write something for her.So....)

Time of our Lives

2007-11-23T09:36:00.000-08:00

There were images on the 76 mm;
there was Zimmerman in the air.

There were protests,too;
under the 'sky-road'.

Repurcussions from miles away,
they played the wrong cards at Writers.

The men in Mughal city,
played the blame game.
The folks in the village played with death.

They assured peace,
Red peace.
A Rizwanur dies again,
A Nandigram cries again.

Its a mutiny,
a silent arrangement.

Thirty years of attrocity,
burns in a single day of 'inhumaneness'.

Another Modi is born,
Or is it discovered?
The truth was always there,
the courage was'nt.

And they sang Zimmerman,
they marched candles.

Silent Mutiny.
of distant feelings of disturbance.

The uniform clad men,
did the job.
The told job.
It is the Red connection again.
Lalbaazar.

We had cars,
we have chemicals.
Its blood now.Red again.

For once the wind blew pure,
at Writers.
The answer was 'Blowin' in the wind'

White Zombies.
Poltergiests in disguise.
Hideous.

The invisible wall has been shattered.
The sun has indeed risen.

Melted candles,torn pieces of black,
broken pieces of wood,stagnant bent of the mind - was all thatwas left.
The silent protest reverberates.

They went Dylan,
candles,silence and
tears.

The Teacher's Farewell

2007-11-22T10:16:00.000-08:00

Droplets of memories,
ooze from the faculty of thoughts.
Days spent eagerly,anticipating
the end of the day.

Time has eventually arrived;
for the one last grasp of enjoyment.
Reckless flashes of manifold glimpes,
streak across the mind.

There's a heavy heart,a sad heart.
Tears are none to form rivulets.
Shocked by the reality of the situation,
Emotions cause perplextiy.

Lessons invigiorated the mind,
it now apprehends the dislikes of the new teacher.
The reason was no more valid.

The lips bore no more.
Words were empty.
The brilliance of the shining light,
is now overshadowed by darkness.

The insignificant moments spent with great significance,
now seem to be eternity past.
If eternity was to be a second,
I'd be ready to be a jiffy.

Knouts of melancholy strike hard.
Drunk with the kirsch of nostalgia,
there develops a knoll in my heart.
Light emotions are now an uphill task.

The heart plays a chicanery with me,
refuses to belive my false notion.
Rankles me each time I fake my smile.
It leaves behind a rut in my memory.

"Goodbye the cruel world" - they sang,
I recite - "This is the cruel world".
Iterations of his voice,
now echoes in the empty classrooms.

The dinghy,in the river of my thoughts,
is lost in a whirpool.
The sudden squall brings me to reality.
Its a staged innocence.

'The fortune wheel spins a new tale",
behind the rimmed glasses the teacher spoke,
with a hint of elegance.
There is a turn in the tide.

The small bit of inspirational fame,
causes a jerk in the train of thoughts.
Amazed,awe-struck; the boy wonders -
"Zeus did leave his court"

Silent glimpses are enough to tell the story.
The teacher is unwilling to leave.
But situations are such now.

The teacher could'nt teach himself.
The teacher had,
Lung Cancer.

2007-11-05T05:12:00.000-08:00

Prison Reckonings

2007-11-02T05:24:00.000-07:00

(The title is inspired from Jeffery Archer's Prison Diaries)

Behind the black bars,
the prisoner sits;
wearing the ever so recognisable
uniform.

The black concrete walls,
turned red at places.
Quite often.

The convict raises his head,
white patch of bandage,
dangles;
bloody forehead.

Pain was usual.
Happiness,
was rare.

The adjacent convent bell,
swings in the loud wind.
Its sings a known song.
The knell.

A narrow beam,
peaks in the dark cell.
Through the small hole.
Light.

A ray of hope.

There is life after death.
The birth of the new life.
Fourteen years away.

Sound of silence is,
experienced each night.
The prisoner,
cries.

The trees,
(from the hole)
swayed gently.
Agents of freedom,
hovered around.
Birds.

Freedom.

His mates bang their plates,
against the rusted pieces of iron.
He waits patiently,
Famine is not over yet.

There are some,
Unknown beckonings
In these,
Prison Reckonings.

A Hero's Return

2007-10-29T10:21:00.000-07:00

The White flag flutters gloriously;
Foe becomes friend;tamed
Again

There is someone waiting miles away,
waiting inside the hut.
Embers burning in a corner.
She sits with her knees folded.

The Garland;
and he was gone.
She thought;
they needed him.
There were thousands like him.

Bullets had finished.
The cartridge was empty.
He fought on,
the knife he still had.

They were returning.
(Burnt bunkers,torn fences,bulleted sand-bags;
leaving behind.)
With relieved faces.

The radio did speak:
'TROOPS GIVEN BREAK'.
Oh! how ecstatic it mader her;
Her.

The eyes did not know;
how he was.
Her ears had heard.
"Wait for me"

Gorakhpur was a bride now.
Jewlled.
It was ready,
Welcome home,
Hero

Days passes by.
Eager faces waited.
One face,
wept.

The dust rose,
the last time it had done was an year ago.
A truck made its way;
into the chowk.

A pair of salutes;
followed the knocks on the door.
She stood agonised.

The crowd behind,
murmured;
loudly.

The matyr came,
Home

Fragments

2007-10-28T04:22:00.000-07:00

There is no sand in it;
the hour glass has gone empty.
Time has stood still,
Come,
fall into to perenial darkness.

She stands up there.
Head held high.

Can I see you there??
Can I sense you?
Can you?

Bring on the pain.
I wont survive without it now.

The mountain was never too high;
the river was never too deep;
the desert was never too dry;
It was only the love;
It was far too hollow.

Bleak images,
flash by.
Memories.

Down the narrow,
old crooked lane;
I search for answers.
Nostalgia.

Obscure thoughts,
prick the mind.
Drops of melancholy,
slide down.

Only if she knew,
stakes were never
this high.

Lesson is learnt.
False feelings.

Experience,
your best teacher.

Rise to the occasion.
I'm ready.
Where are you?

Lost soul,
I'm searching.

Men in White

2007-10-14T11:29:00.000-07:00

And they talk about having better democracy,
People dying,children crying, women wailing.
The RED stars prevailing over.
A feeble voice squeaks - i want freedom.

They live in a horrible world,
mass-killings are the order of the day.
Yet the leader speaks,
"We thrive for peace"

The crowd remain perplexed about the situations.
"They" are godmen in sophisticated attires.
Belive them or you are in danger.
This is the situation.

They sing a different song each time,
Pretend as if they were 'chosen',
chosen to be up there,
Malicious!

Glimpses of their atrocity are manifold.
But the eyes that see seldom speak.
The clock ticks by,
they rise to power one by one.

Stop them,you get killed.
Challenge them,you get harrassed.
Pay them, you are in the news.
Ignore them,they don't care.

They are leaders, they are godmen.
they are GOD.

HER Departure

2007-10-14T06:11:00.000-07:00

She stood below the stairs,
waiting for me.....
The blood of our Love was still warm.
We both felt it.

We were miles apart;
still we were very much in luv.

She breathed her last, the last month,
I can still see her in the smoke.
She glares with her anxious eyes.
I feel her ubiquitous prescence.

Put me into a tranquil,
shes gone.
All it needed was five brutal men
They tore her apart.

Revenge is always sweet - they say.
This one has to be bloody,vicious.

The days are all nights,
the nights become hell.
I am on the prowl.
One grasp and it will be done.

My dreams are gone.
Bloodspill is what i desire.
Her laughter still rings in my ear.
Today would have been the third year of us being together.

We laughed,we enjoyed,we were fun.
They relished!
She comes in the smoke among the clouds.
She dissapears again.

Oh! i feel so helpless..
I can't bear it anymore.
I'm coming to rip u apart
I'm coming......

Fortune-teller

2007-10-14T00:12:00.000-07:00

He sits with a glum face,
waiting for one of those ;
helpless clients.
With cards displaying images manifold

Worried faces come in with great apprehension,
expecting to return home happy.
Fate unravels itself,
the fortune teller speaks.

He interpreted many a hands,read numerous horoscopes.
Some left elated, others sceptic.
(And the parrot fluttered around)

Placing his woven turban on the earthen floor.
He washed the multicoloured vermillion off his forehead.
His soul was parched,
there was no one to solve his own problems.

The walls were crumbling down,
the thatched roof did all but protect.
The two cows he owned were thinnig by the day.
Most importantly - the parrot had died the last night.

He was in his sixties,
all frail and weak.
His eyes were shrinking;
and he talked in shivers.

The Great Flood had swept away his house;
he built this one , it took him 5 gruelling years.
Only to be burned by the local goon,
the leader's marriage was on the rocks.

He wished there was someone,
someone to help him.
Knock Knock -
there came another one.
It was business as usual.

The next day he was found lying in his chamber.
The cards were smeared with his scarlet.

Rockstar

2007-10-12T23:32:00.000-07:00

Ligths fall , get ready,
the drum beats starts gettin louder.
The shrill of the guitar is humming.
Rise my Rockstar,
for the people are waiting to hear,
Turn over a new leaf.

Stunned by his own countenance,
the hero replies:
"I'm too weak...to lean...."
He forgets what he is.
A faint voice says:
"Rise my hero,awake, the world's waiting.

The Rockstar is even more amazed,
He still has a fan,
jolts back to reality.

A FAN?...He has thousands of them,
just look out from his window
You'll even find a sexagenerian waiting.
For he has been proven innocent,
Of what?...Ask of what not!

"Struggle" was the moral of his story,
banished by his own will,he finds a new Roger.
He picks up the mikestand.
A star is re-born.

Silver Lining

2007-10-12T23:10:00.000-07:00

The sky lightens up , promises crop up.
Future suddenly starts seems so bright.
Its time to chalk out thr lows and the highs.
Gather all your forces,put in all your might,
Let not each second tick by wasted.

What if all hopes are gone? Energise yourself
Look ahead, the sun rises on the horizon;Its a new tommorrow.
Leave all our frustrations,failures and dissapointments on your old shelf.
Prepare for the bigger battle ; ne ready to beat the biggest sorrows.
Whats the anxiety for? For every cloud has a silver lining.

Look into your inner self , search for that great soul.
Time will tell you , "I can't really wait".
Your courage will stand a testimony to everything you do.
Fight against life and 'it" in return will make you its best mate.

Use your frailest weapon - Your mind;
and see it becoming the strongest.
Thrive for the truth,
There's nothing more worth than the ultimate prize.

Farewell

2007-10-12T04:13:00.000-07:00

I'm mundane, i'm an object;
I am what i am.

Centuires pass by , winds blow away
I reamain the very "thing" i always was.

I'm subdued by them,i'm exploited
Love and Hatred are now the same thing.

I light up the fire of the deep emotion,
to burn each hidden passion.

I'm sick and tired of aspirations,
all i want is eternal rest.

My senses are numb,
feelings are none

Emotions stop boggling in my mind
I'm leaving.....

Goodbye...