Blogging poetry..
aaaaaa

Four liners for the maple leaf

--

If my mother were to know

we all live in this world of shame

she would have sighed and

not tried her hand on poetry.

You and me,

all wrapped in time, running for glory

i see little kids, looking at us,

finding nothing, save a sad story.

Sometimes the light's all shining on me

Other times i can barely see

Lately it occurs to me

What a long strange trip its been.

You are the star,

Wanting to know where we are going,

Too much light here,

The destination not worth showing.

Hit and miss, blood and tears

Childhood stories, grown up liars

I eat your breasts, you bash my penis,
thats to life dear maple, and all its glories..

--

~ Onno bhor er kobita ~

Onno Bhor er kobita
--
Shedin notun kobita likhlaam,
onno bhor er kobita.

Ami bhor er pothojatri noi,
shokaal belaay uthe pakhider daake r
piyaashi o noi,
bhor er manush er bestota
amaar kache praachin desh
kinba ojana manush
er motoi orbachin, ochena.

Nisha amaay bhalobashay bedhe rekhechilo,
taanke bhalobashtaam na onno kichu ke,
janina, hoyto taanr nisthobdota ke,
hoyto baa taanr ekakitto ke,
mone hoto, taanr nirliptotay
jeno ami khuje petam,
porom apon nijer konojon ke.

Aaj, nisha vindeshi,
koto din raatri jaagi naa,
taanr shonge bhalobashay motto hoi naa,
amaar kache ekhon notun jibon er patheo,
ei notun bhor, onno bhor.

Age jaantam
amader shoa r pore, bhor hoto,
pakhira deke uthto, shurjo jholshato,
Prithibi taar jibon shuru kore dito,
amra khaali shue thaaktam sharata din
prithibi r theke door e.

Aaj, mishe gechi shei prithibi te,
Bhor e uthi, notun bhor e,
onno bhor e, aar tumi ekhono shue,
din er door er manush ekhon amar kacher.

Nijeke kemon jeno
chinte pari na,
taai kobita likhi,
tomay nie noi,
tomar shoba r pore
purono bhor ke nie noi,
onno bhor ke nie.
--

~ tomar kobita ~

~tomar kobita~

keno janina,

onek bhebe o,

tomar jonno kobita likhte gele,

amaar haath kenpe jaay...

nijeke proshno kori,

kaaron ta ki..

tumi ki amar kobita nao,

shedin shondhyay tobe ke chile tumi?

hoyto jibon..

aar taai tomar kache,

jibon er kache..

haath kepe,

kobita naa likhte pere,

amar kono lojja hoy naa..

tumi i to amar kobita..

aabaar ohetuk likhe bola keno..

....

A moment in the setting sun

A moment in the setting sun...

Grandpa strolled across with kids,
youngest in a pram, brother and sister beside
fighting, getting bashed for their antics
crying, stopping, showing signs
of fake anger, forgetting and running along..

They fade out in the distance..
As Mr jogger went past
Sweating body, what a shape,
God's gift, well done man,
keeping it prim and proper!

In the distance the sun,
still bright, tired, its time
to set, the clouds smile
ask it to come back home
it was a hard day's work..

at the signal,
there are cars now,
all colors and shine,
black and blue, steel and white

Time ticks,
music strums into the ears,
the lyrics say, "what do i know love,
of sad evenings, it has lit up,
now that i took your name"..

Time ticks,
Get back to work,
get back to living..

What do i know love,
of sad evenings
or this moment in the setting sun?

~ in memory of Kurt Vonnegut ~

When the last living thing

has died on account of us,

how poetical it would be

if Earth could say,

in a voice floating up

perhaps

from the floor

of the Grand Canyon,

“It is done.”

People did not like it here.

My life from the rains to the snows and...

---

While writing these few lines
and walking amidst the snows
i suddenly have all the yearnings
for the rains...

Around me a pale sun
and stilled out trees
flakes pouring a pile

here and there around..

thats the winter country
living in, i realise how

i have forgotten my
own beloved rains...

and how in another world

they come bringing with them

joy and sound, green and peace,
playing with clouds and lightening in the sky..

none of that here...
in this snow country
no rains only flakes
no green only white...

Somebody once told me
that heaven is perhaps like this
he hadn't seen the rains
born in a winter country..

and left me wondering

how heaven n bliss, never being there

yet differ in imageries we know...

and keep knowing and changing thus..

while writing these lines
walking through the snows
looking at the trees

stilled by incessant flakes

travelling and yearning

for green and beloved rains...
born in a rain country
walking now in a snow country..

dying ...who knows which country? :)

~:)

Utshob er baluchore..

Kubja, esho prithibike khuchro bhabhe dekhi..
kauke bujhie bolar dorkaar nei, keno e-bhabhe dekha..
noukou teer e laageni. tikitghor ekhono ondhokaar..
shudhu amaar angul er angti r pathor joljol korche..
jeno banshberia r aalo.
tobe ki aamra kono utshob er baluchore pouche gechi?

Kubja, come, let us see the world in its smallest elements,

no need to explain to anybody, why we shall see like this..

the boat hasnt touched the shores yet, the ticket rooms still dark..

just the ring on my fingers are shining bright still..

as if the last flickers in a dark bamboo jungle..

Is it true, that we have finally reached the beaches of some festival then....

~patchy and rusty posting after a long time...a bengali poem by Utpol Kumar Basu at

http://www.boipara.com/bengali_literature_ebooks/bengali_poetry_ebook_kuri1st01.asp

~ 2 Himself ~

---

Now you will rest forever,
My tired heart. The fabulous deceit
That i myself believed eternal has ended.
Ended. How sharply i feel,
In we of the dear deceit,
There is no hope, desire being spent.
Rest forever. So many
palpitations. Your flutterings
Serve no one, nor do you dignify the earth
with your sighs. Life is bitter and empty,
nothing more. The world is a slough.
Calm yourself now. Despair.
For the last time. Fate gave your kind
no gift but death. At last
nature disdains you, the brute
power that, lurking, imposes the common day,
and the infinite variety of things.

~by Giacomo Leopardi from the Italian version, and yet the tears dont stop reading these lines, knowing these lines, living these lines....

~ You and my cigarette ~

--
Most times,
when i travel miles,
across the skies and oceans,
reaching you and your gentle hand,

I can sense your numbness.

I move my fingers slowly
on your sleeping ones
i wide awake in the sun of the day,
you in your dreams of the night

And you turn around just a bit.

Slowly, i caress your hair
move the sheet up, to cover
your sensitive soul
and give you a kiss on the forehead.

I walk out then for a cigarette.

It is sunny here,
people soaking in daytime activites,
me and my cigarette sees them
and smiles in trifle sadness

You get up,
something told your dreamy self
that i must be out, on the terrace
or on the streets, smoking,

And you come and embrace me,

I hold you tight,
I stand still,
i sense my numbness as you get alive
and i ask my stupid self,
Why, WHY do i smoke a cigarette?
--

~ to Love ~

'To Love'


----

I didnt ask you to stay
but you stayed
I never asked you who you were
Or what you wanted.
You were simply there.
What do you want from me, love?
Was i not stronger alone?
And did i ever need you?
But stay a bit longer.
Not long,
Just until they stop asking
how i am,
And i stop saying, 'Fine'
Everyone can tell at a glance:
You are here.
If you ever leave me,
i will go with you.

-------

~ from 'Love in thoughts' extract 3.

~ at the zenith ~

Maybe its true
that people are only truly happy, just once in their lives,
just once, And then they are punished for it for the rest of their lives,
The punishment is that they can never forget that one moment.
I think its best..to say goodbye at the right time. Namely when you'are the happiest.
Precisely then, At the zenith.

-- From 'Love in thoughts' extract 2.

'love in thoughts'

-------


Dear Universe,

When we have ceased to exist,
we dont want anyone to miss us,
or shed even a single tear for us.
If anyone wants to keep us
in his memory, let him do so in joy.
For you see,
we did the only right thing,
we lived.

-------

from the movie, Love in Thoughts, extract 1.

| Blessed are the cigarette smokers |

Dear Mr Cigarette Manufacturer,


Its time to compliment you today.

Many years back i had slapped a friend, who smoked and entered my hostel room. I was a young chap then, with preconceived notions of what one should and should not do. Smoking and drinking came under the aegis of those 'one should not do' activities. Times have changed and like the aging leaves of autumn who stand the wrath of winters and finally wither off, that me has wrinkled away as well.

The new me survives on cigarettes. And what beauty and solace you bring to me, Mr Cigarette. Especially in times like these. When i scout for some soul in this world to talk my soul out. But find none. Not my mother. Not sister or father or even the person i am going to marry in a few months time from now. No friend to open my pains out for all that they possibly can do listening to my predicament is to listen and empathise. But given the backgrounds they come from they possibly wont be able to offer me active strategies.

And behold i dont want 'strategies' i just want the blessings of the 'cigarette smokers'. :)

The first snow of the season has occurred. Its cold today but that is only but a metaphore to my life. Life has become a queer concoction of conflicts, which i might want to handle and steer towards peaceful solutions. But know fully well, that i cant. It will be difficult. Handling never solved anything, the outcome, as Mr Godbole in Forsters 'A passage to India' will like to say: is defined.

Writh in pain i may, handling strategies i might devise, but the outcome shall still remain defined.

Mother understands it a little. But what can she do? Poor she, she feels it, but given her willing submission, she has opted to be the second player. Else perhaps she would have met somebody to my liking and steer my wedlock in that direction. And then again, who can assure that that particular outcome would have assured perfect harmony. Perfect harmony is a myth is it? I dont know but till then:

Blessed are the cigarette smokers.

Sister gets married off in a few months. To a very lovable chap. And i, to another lady a lovable woman. Unfortunately, the women in question, sister and she, will be trapped in the beholdings of us - the lovable chap and me, their respective husbands. And they might whimper about comparative situations, but the outcome still shall remain defined.

A moving out, is that a solution. Staying single for some more time, a punch on the face of a lady whom i have 'touched' gently and genuinely, is that a solution? Dont think so. How selfish would that be? Perhaps silence is golden only for such situations.

But till then Blessed are the cigarette smokers, and the song writers who write words like these:

"And here i sit hand on a telephone,
hearing a voice i know,
a couple of light years ago,
heading straight for a fall..."


Bless the fall Mr Cigarette Maker...

~ Amen, the cigarette smoker.

? Who am I ?

---
Who am I?
---

In many ways,
you are like her,
coming with your ideas to me,
a flash flood not known in the seasons,
of lost love
and broken faiths

In many ways she was like you,
picking the phone up,
talking a little,
then rushing off, with excuses,
money or work, whichever you want,

In many ways,
you are like her
calling me by the same name,
with which mother ushered me into this world,
a baby long back, now a aged bumpkin,

In many ways,
you and she,
and she and you,
are like all of you,
who walk into my life,
own me, despair owning me,
leave, leaving me wiser, whimpering,

that you are not she,
and she,
if alive and listening,
is or was not you,

how about me then,
who am I?
----

|Junk Talk|

-------

Good morning!
Hello!!!
How are you doing ?
Oh..i am good...
How about you?

Quite nice..
Thanks for asking:)
Catch you around


Walk on.. Next Morning,

Good Morning!
Hellooo!!!
What's up ?
Nothing much!
You ?
Oh same old story! :(

Life is boring,
Ah...true!
I got to rush
(fear getting emotional in office)
(have to keep work n life in separate silos)


That is fine..
Have a good one.
Take care man..
How about taking it easy..
No No, hang in there..
not too easy, nor too tight.
figure out the optimum..

Junk Talks..
give me my solitude,
please, i rather not talk,
than to talk junk at all.
-----------

A letter to Senor Sharma

---

A letter to Senor Sharma

---
Dear Mr Sharma,
Your Sons, A & R,
Are with me in the same college,
Young Chaps, good chaps, Senor,

They have it in their eyes,
yet many a times,
a little low i feel,
not for them,
they are fine,
eager to make a mark,
like you the strolling diplomat,

no roots, no anchor, so what,
for the country's sake, you
rove the world, but for you,
yes,

a little low, i feel,

why this messing up of life,
why leave your kids behind,
in one concrete jungle after another,
large cities and small,
urban and semi urban conglomerates,

When,

they could have done so well,
by being a little more secure,
a little less fidgety
surer a little more of their wants,

More importantly, also of,
not what they want,
with you,
Senor Sharma at home,
surer roots not travelling,
alas you dont, you come and leave them,
fine chaps, good chaps,
the Sharma brothers
talking to me,
another Senor in the making,
in their college?

--

out of fear or fearlessness ?

----
There as you stand, smoke,
And smoke and stand,
tall, strapping, hair unkempt,
fearless, loquacious,
you remind me of past days.

There used to be evenings,
not so long back, a year
there or after, when,
fear i had known none, today

not that i am afraid,
but the question of being so,
has walked past me,
as if,

lapping me up in the corner,
leaving that last iota of
travelling thoughts,
beyond fear or fearlessness

Me still not venturing,
or having ventured,
in a journey useless,
stand here still,

looking at you,
standing and smoking
and smoking and standing,
wondering why i am, where i am,

trembling,
out of fear or
fearlessness ?
----

'Washed up on a distant shore, can’t go home anymore'

~
Everyone knows that there’s no place like home
I’m just seeking refuge in a world full of storms
Washed up on a distant shore, can’t go home anymore


The natives are hostile whatever I say
The thing they fear most is I might want to stay
By their side on a different shore, can’t go home anymore


I escape my tormentors by crossing the sea
What I cannot escape is the memory
Washed up on a distant shore, can’t go home anymore


Everyone knows that there’s no place like home
I’m just seeking refuge in a world full of storms
Washed up on a distant shore, can’t go home anymore
Washed up on a distant shore, can’t go home anymore
Washed up on a distant shore, can’t go home anymore
~

-- and however much, i try to forget, that its puja time, this irish folk song catches me by my tears...am washed up on a distant shore, cant go home anymore..i can smell the kaash ful, feel the air back home, sitting here, on a distant shore, and do nothing, sit silent, i can't go home anymore..

'Bhalobasha bhalobasha'

Amaar moton shukhi ke aache,
aay shokhi aay amaar kaache,
shukhi hridoyer shukher gaan,
shuniya toder juraabe praan...

Protidin jodi kaadibi kebol,
ek din noy hashibi tora,
ek din noy bishaade bhuliya,
shokole miliya gaahibo mora,

Bhabona kahaare bole,
Shokhi..jatona kahaare bole,
tomra je bolo dibosho rojoni,
Bhalobasha, bhalobasha,

Shokhi bhalobasha kaare koy,
She ki keboli chokh er jol,
she ki keboli dukh er shaash,
loke tobe kore ki shukh er tor emon dukh er aash...

-- my day starts with this song, some silent tears, and loads of classes! :) bingo!!!!