Friday, June 27, 2008

Darjeeling deja’ vu

Silent roofs
Curl up inside
Purple fumes of uncertainty.

Within cold tremor
On the bare breasts of
Old colonial streets.

All of a sudden,
Twenty one years of terror and tyranny
Fall down
Like a rotten egg.

Cool celebration
Sleeping Stones
Static Dynamisms
A Still Storm.

End of political eclipse
‘Apolitical’ stands
Famous till now.

People start talking
And living politics
For once again.

And now,
Who can stop them?
They are in festive mood
Their gala of struggle.

Numb air
Breaths in oxygen
When protest blows in the wind
Just like a reckless hip-hop song.

They’ve cracked again
The forgotten password
To log in the world of dignity.

‘Land of Mystic Thunderbolt’
Is roaring
Punk slogans of justice and equality:

“We don’t need no education
We don’t need no thought control.”


We are so -
So are our colours.

You are true Bhaskarda,
All of the colours
This is the religion
Of colours.

We name them
[I don’t know
In fact
The name of colour.]

A rational
Never asks the questions like:
What colour you are-
Black or white?

But rational questions are coloured:
Coloured in several colours.
Several shades of colours:
Personality, psyche’, economy, genetics, milieu, culture…

As because
Nothing is colourless,
Even colour is not colourless.

Nobody knows
Your perception
Better than you.

So, I won’t ask you-
What do you perceive
By seeing me


Eating grass.

Foxes hang around
In a busy city road.

Red flowers bloom in an old fern plant.

Eyes mimic
The blind.

Horns of a cat.

Liberal parody of czars.

At 5 P.M. to-day.

Dream Azure

Have you ever

Now when the sky of emotion
Is about to vomit all out
-The droplets of silence

The dream seems
As gray
As the silent Teesta.

The words
Have another outlet
The pupils
The unspoken words
Flow through them
As the Teesta flows
-The grey Teesta
-The green Teesta
-The blue Teesta

Says that
She has nothing to say
And starts gazing
The northern hills
The northern hills-
Where her anxiety for emancipation
Propels like a hawk.

I speak to you
O Teesta!
Close your eyes
For a microsecond
If you want to keep them open
It’s alright:
But see a dream
As you know that
The dream
Is the uterus
Of to-morrow.

An orphan flower
Like an orphaned time
Crawls on orphaned road.

You must reach the ocean
And for that
You should have dream
And your dreams may perhaps be
As azure as your smiles
As soothing as your unspoken whisper.

Fantastic God

Nietzsche says
God is dead.
It’s ok
God is still harmful
Even if it is not alive

Truth of illusions
Give birth to unreal God
‘The supreme power’-
So called ‘The Omnipotent’

Hypocrisy born
From living womb
Of illusive Goddess

Gentle Vikings
Earn their profits
From this unreal reality

God is after all
A mere hallucination
The matter is
We all get addicted
By opium of God
We are always hypnotized
By you religious people
We are seduced by
Porno goddesses.

God is mere imagination
Not more than that
And this has
Always been dangerous

Gods simply emanate
From our unending fear

God is illusory
And this fantasy is
Never radical
But always reactionary


At last
I was lost
In your last word
That was lost
In the lost world of your last words

Have Fresh Air

This is the time
for you to come.
For you to see and know.
To know and win.

The tree of waiting
Is penetrating
the sky of ceaseless hope.

and have fresh air
Have fresh talks
Have fresh dreams
Tell me something new
As much new as History is.

Tell me something untold.

Don’t ever stand against
The question of this desperate Time.
Instead, you search a fitting answer.

Let’s have our own vision
Own eyes to see.
Let’s have our own brain
Own thoughts to walk.

This is the turn
For you to come
For you to decide

And have fresh air.

Tell me
Something new,
Truly new.

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