Quarks-I
[I]
It has already started
To rain
When
I’ve just started
To learn
Alphabets of Rain
[II]
I keep on feeling
That I think
Something
Thought by all
My outcast thought
Joins
The caravan of thoughts
Caravan
Doesn’t know
Where to adjourn
[III]
Even time contracts
Sometimes
Honey
Aren’t the skew streets of life
Too stretched and too boring to walk?
[IV]
Can you join
The pieces
Of your emotion
It seems just like
A jigsaw puzzle
Have patience
O passionate man!
[V]
I just called
In your cell
To say
I hate you
[VI]
You may visit my blog
And send response
Sir!
I’ve posted
An appealing article
On something
Which may really
Irritate you
Irritate others
And let be irritated
Quarks-II
[I]
Ruined were the friendly oases
This time
Enemy Mirages
Treated us sincerely
Mirages simply told us that
Mirages should not be confused
With water
[II]
Solemn wishes
Were shot to dead
Curfew and blackout ruled
In the village of justice
Nobody knows now
How exactly should a rational behave?
[III]
Today that I walk straight
On circumference of a circle
Let time
Shrink on my still palms
[IV]
Order came
And they opened fire
Bloods drop on the soil
Like Dews
The last sigh
Became
Song of the road
[V]
Nasty efforts
Cannot compel
My story to be faded into oblivion
I could never forget myself
For
I’m not to be
Defeated again and again
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Existential Touch
Climbing
A big mountain
Mysterious blue sky
An awful infinite...
I start climbing
I don’t and can’t see my own footprints
On the giddy white snow
Because I have already left them
Below me. Below my being
They may look like my epitaphs.
Hawks hover around me.
I’m about to hug zenith.
A sudden sound
The mountain explodes
I wake up from my dream
Now
It’s
Reality
Again-
A big mountain
Mysterious blue sky
An awful infinite...
I start climbing…
Of Hypercracy
Hypersimplicity
Of hypercomplex lifestyle
Hypernormalcy
Of hyper abnormal mind
Hyperplane
Of hyper zigzag world
Kills you
Kills me
Kills us
Let’s search our life
Friends
We are lost
In something which is supposed to be
Our enemy’s life
A big mountain
Mysterious blue sky
An awful infinite...
I start climbing
I don’t and can’t see my own footprints
On the giddy white snow
Because I have already left them
Below me. Below my being
They may look like my epitaphs.
Hawks hover around me.
I’m about to hug zenith.
A sudden sound
The mountain explodes
I wake up from my dream
Now
It’s
Reality
Again-
A big mountain
Mysterious blue sky
An awful infinite...
I start climbing…
Of Hypercracy
Hypersimplicity
Of hypercomplex lifestyle
Hypernormalcy
Of hyper abnormal mind
Hyperplane
Of hyper zigzag world
Kills you
Kills me
Kills us
Let’s search our life
Friends
We are lost
In something which is supposed to be
Our enemy’s life
Poems on Gyration
Lone Pine Tree & Her Dazzling Embroidery on Table Cloth
Lone pine tree noiselessly stands on awkward shoulder of uneven northern hill. Old eunuch sun puts on her cosmetics of curvy young clouds.
Last time when I saw you and talked with you (might be, without your willingness), what I found was a totally different you. I sincerely discovered that time; I was not the same person who used to be once before that. So, you are no more that simple girl. Even I am not that simple guy.
Reference frames have shifted for both of us now. And with no doubts, frames shall be continuously shifting and changing for all of us.
I thought for a while that we are now gentle puzzles. Who will solve us, I never know.
Blood rush inside curved veins. Attitudes, too. Reflection and refraction of motion search for equilibrium of something which ought to be always unstable.
I was talking to her in a rainy evening. I was just simply drawn mad seeing her dazzling embroidery done on her white table cloth. As if that whiteness of table cloth is aperture of faint hope as well as down memory lanes. So many easy straights mix up together to generate tough arcs of feelings and emotions. Stories. The show must go on - this unawkward and stereotype slogan seldom measures the radius of curvature of small things.
Straight droplets of water strike slant on the bare forehead only to remind your skew existence. Intercourse of straights produce locus for gyrations.
We are bound to admit- Nothing is straight in the world. Even straight lines aren’t straight.
Trees, roads, houses. Thoughts, feelings, words. They are gyrated. All are gyrated.
We are the lost wanderers of patterns of her embroidery. Technology has simplified our lifestyle. But not life. Economy kidnaps all and all are made prisoners of system. Poison may taste sweet. Alcohol of gossips liberate semiconscious minds. But what about reality of hyper impulses while in normalcy?
Lost Centre of Gravity
A curvy bird
Rests on a twisted trunk
And sings
An irregular song
Skew are the thoughts
Everything is tilted
Table, chair, bed, dishes, shoes, books, TV, PC
Ups and downs are there in every road
Of the world
Steep are the hills
Gyrated the experiences
Feelings are toppled
Nothing is unputdownable
Here
Topsy turvy words
Mischievous eyes
One leg hangs from the sky
Another sprout from soil
One-eyed dog is made to bark
To the microphone
In the recording studio of
An irritating band
For a song of rabies
One cannot stand alone
Falls down
If others don’t let their shoulders
To keep the hand there
Lone pine tree noiselessly stands on awkward shoulder of uneven northern hill. Old eunuch sun puts on her cosmetics of curvy young clouds.
Last time when I saw you and talked with you (might be, without your willingness), what I found was a totally different you. I sincerely discovered that time; I was not the same person who used to be once before that. So, you are no more that simple girl. Even I am not that simple guy.
Reference frames have shifted for both of us now. And with no doubts, frames shall be continuously shifting and changing for all of us.
I thought for a while that we are now gentle puzzles. Who will solve us, I never know.
Blood rush inside curved veins. Attitudes, too. Reflection and refraction of motion search for equilibrium of something which ought to be always unstable.
I was talking to her in a rainy evening. I was just simply drawn mad seeing her dazzling embroidery done on her white table cloth. As if that whiteness of table cloth is aperture of faint hope as well as down memory lanes. So many easy straights mix up together to generate tough arcs of feelings and emotions. Stories. The show must go on - this unawkward and stereotype slogan seldom measures the radius of curvature of small things.
Straight droplets of water strike slant on the bare forehead only to remind your skew existence. Intercourse of straights produce locus for gyrations.
We are bound to admit- Nothing is straight in the world. Even straight lines aren’t straight.
Trees, roads, houses. Thoughts, feelings, words. They are gyrated. All are gyrated.
We are the lost wanderers of patterns of her embroidery. Technology has simplified our lifestyle. But not life. Economy kidnaps all and all are made prisoners of system. Poison may taste sweet. Alcohol of gossips liberate semiconscious minds. But what about reality of hyper impulses while in normalcy?
Lost Centre of Gravity
A curvy bird
Rests on a twisted trunk
And sings
An irregular song
Skew are the thoughts
Everything is tilted
Table, chair, bed, dishes, shoes, books, TV, PC
Ups and downs are there in every road
Of the world
Steep are the hills
Gyrated the experiences
Feelings are toppled
Nothing is unputdownable
Here
Topsy turvy words
Mischievous eyes
One leg hangs from the sky
Another sprout from soil
One-eyed dog is made to bark
To the microphone
In the recording studio of
An irritating band
For a song of rabies
One cannot stand alone
Falls down
If others don’t let their shoulders
To keep the hand there
Saturday, July 12, 2008
Scientific Meaning of Quark
Quark :
A quark is any of a group of subatomic particles believed to be among the fundamental constituents of matter. In much the same way that protons and neutrons make up atomic nuclei, these particles themselves are thought to consist of quarks. Quarks constitute all hadrons (baryons and mesons)--i.e., all particles that interact by means of the strong force, the force that binds the components of the nucleus.
According to prevailing theory, quarks have mass and exhibit a spin (i.e., type of intrinsic angular momentum corresponding to a rotation around an axis through the particle). Quarks appear to be truly fundamental. They have no apparent structure; that is, they cannot be resolved into something smaller. Quarks always seem to occur in combination with other quarks or antiquarks, never alone. For years physicists have attempted to knock a quark out of a baryon in experiments with particle accelerators to observe it in a free state but have not yet succeeded in doing so.
Throughout the 1960s theoretical physicists, trying to account for the ever-growing number of subatomic particles observed in experiments, considered the possibility that protons and neutrons were composed of smaller units of matter. In 1961 two physicists, Murray Gell-Mann of the United States and Yuval Ne`eman of Israel, proposed a particle classification scheme called the Eightfold Way, based on the mathematical symmetry group SU(3), that described strongly interacting particles in terms of building blocks. In 1964 Gell-Mann introduced the concept of quarks as a physical basis for the scheme, adopting the fanciful term from a passage in James Joyce's novel Finnegans Wake. (The American physicist George Zweig developed a similar theory independently that same year and called his fundamental particles "aces.") Gell-Mann's model provided a simple picture in which all mesons are shown as consisting of a quark and an antiquark and all baryons as composed of three quarks. It postulated the existence of three types of quarks, distinguished by distinctive "flavours." These three quark types are now commonly designated as "up" (u), "down" (d), and "strange" (s). Each carries a fractional electric charge (i.e., a charge less than that of the electron). The up and down quarks are thought to make up protons and neutrons and are thus the ones observed in ordinary matter. Strange quarks occur as components of K mesons and various other extremely short-lived subatomic particles that were first observed in cosmic rays but that play no part in ordinary matter.
Most problems with quarks were resolved by the introduction of the concept of color, as formulated in quantum chromodynamics (QCD). In this theory of strong interactions, developed in 1977, the term color has nothing to do with the colors of the everyday world but rather represents a special quantum property of quarks. The colors red, green, and blue are ascribed to quarks, and their opposites, minus-red, minus-green, and minus-blue, to antiquarks. According to QCD, all combinations of quarks must contain equal mixtures of these imaginary colors so that they will cancel out one another, with the resulting particle having no net color. A baryon, for example, always consists of a combination of one red, one green, and one blue quark. The property of color in strong interactions plays a role analogous to an electric charge in electromagnetic interactions. Charge implies the exchange of photons between charged particles. Similarly, color involves the exchange of massless particles called gluons among quarks. Just as photons carry electromagnetic force, gluons transmit the forces that bind quarks together. Quarks change their color as they emit and absorb gluons, and the exchange of gluons maintains proper quark color distribution.
[Coutesy: Britannica Encyclopedia]
A quark is any of a group of subatomic particles believed to be among the fundamental constituents of matter. In much the same way that protons and neutrons make up atomic nuclei, these particles themselves are thought to consist of quarks. Quarks constitute all hadrons (baryons and mesons)--i.e., all particles that interact by means of the strong force, the force that binds the components of the nucleus.
According to prevailing theory, quarks have mass and exhibit a spin (i.e., type of intrinsic angular momentum corresponding to a rotation around an axis through the particle). Quarks appear to be truly fundamental. They have no apparent structure; that is, they cannot be resolved into something smaller. Quarks always seem to occur in combination with other quarks or antiquarks, never alone. For years physicists have attempted to knock a quark out of a baryon in experiments with particle accelerators to observe it in a free state but have not yet succeeded in doing so.
Throughout the 1960s theoretical physicists, trying to account for the ever-growing number of subatomic particles observed in experiments, considered the possibility that protons and neutrons were composed of smaller units of matter. In 1961 two physicists, Murray Gell-Mann of the United States and Yuval Ne`eman of Israel, proposed a particle classification scheme called the Eightfold Way, based on the mathematical symmetry group SU(3), that described strongly interacting particles in terms of building blocks. In 1964 Gell-Mann introduced the concept of quarks as a physical basis for the scheme, adopting the fanciful term from a passage in James Joyce's novel Finnegans Wake. (The American physicist George Zweig developed a similar theory independently that same year and called his fundamental particles "aces.") Gell-Mann's model provided a simple picture in which all mesons are shown as consisting of a quark and an antiquark and all baryons as composed of three quarks. It postulated the existence of three types of quarks, distinguished by distinctive "flavours." These three quark types are now commonly designated as "up" (u), "down" (d), and "strange" (s). Each carries a fractional electric charge (i.e., a charge less than that of the electron). The up and down quarks are thought to make up protons and neutrons and are thus the ones observed in ordinary matter. Strange quarks occur as components of K mesons and various other extremely short-lived subatomic particles that were first observed in cosmic rays but that play no part in ordinary matter.
Most problems with quarks were resolved by the introduction of the concept of color, as formulated in quantum chromodynamics (QCD). In this theory of strong interactions, developed in 1977, the term color has nothing to do with the colors of the everyday world but rather represents a special quantum property of quarks. The colors red, green, and blue are ascribed to quarks, and their opposites, minus-red, minus-green, and minus-blue, to antiquarks. According to QCD, all combinations of quarks must contain equal mixtures of these imaginary colors so that they will cancel out one another, with the resulting particle having no net color. A baryon, for example, always consists of a combination of one red, one green, and one blue quark. The property of color in strong interactions plays a role analogous to an electric charge in electromagnetic interactions. Charge implies the exchange of photons between charged particles. Similarly, color involves the exchange of massless particles called gluons among quarks. Just as photons carry electromagnetic force, gluons transmit the forces that bind quarks together. Quarks change their color as they emit and absorb gluons, and the exchange of gluons maintains proper quark color distribution.
[Coutesy: Britannica Encyclopedia]
Friday, July 11, 2008
On Time
Time Dies Slowly
Who the hell knocks
Continuously on the windows?
Who injects venom
In the veins of time-
Of this mighty time?
Time dies slowly
But nobody sees time dying
Time weeps behind the moons
Hides in the books
Mingles with the foods
Sleeps inside the boots
Changes with the moods
Time dies slowly
Time crawls beneath the houses
Burns with the cigarettes
Blossoms upon epitaphs
Lies on the streets
Jumps between the gaps
Time dies slowly
Time dies slowly
But you never know-
How slow is it?
You can never measure-
How long does it go?
Time reborn fast
How fast
You can never experience
It’s also true that
Time dies silently
Like sea gulls sailing in the sea
And I ask one question
To none other than me
Who injects venom
In the veins of time
Is it really a crime?
An hour slips unseen
Inside our vanity
It’s 1 ‘O’ Clock at night
A century dies of AIDS
In the bed of dirty history
It’s time to bid farewell
To the time fading slowly
Get up from the graveyard
Nightmares are madly crowding
Who the hell knocks
Continuously on the doors?
Timely Questions
1 O’ clock: What’s the time now?
2 O’ clock: Whose time is this?
3 O’ clock: Have your time come?
4 O’ clock: Can you hold this storm like time?
5 O’ clock: Time bends time- is it so?
6 O’ clock: Are you simply killing time by killing nothing?
7 O’ clock: Have you decided your time to go?
8 O’ clock: Do the time stops itself sometimes?
9 O’ clock: Which time shall you come back?
10 O’ clock: Aren’t you time?
-Time is asking
These
To you
Wake up dear
Its already 11 O’clock now
You are too late
Get up, stand up
And
Answer her-
Just now!
Who the hell knocks
Continuously on the windows?
Who injects venom
In the veins of time-
Of this mighty time?
Time dies slowly
But nobody sees time dying
Time weeps behind the moons
Hides in the books
Mingles with the foods
Sleeps inside the boots
Changes with the moods
Time dies slowly
Time crawls beneath the houses
Burns with the cigarettes
Blossoms upon epitaphs
Lies on the streets
Jumps between the gaps
Time dies slowly
Time dies slowly
But you never know-
How slow is it?
You can never measure-
How long does it go?
Time reborn fast
How fast
You can never experience
It’s also true that
Time dies silently
Like sea gulls sailing in the sea
And I ask one question
To none other than me
Who injects venom
In the veins of time
Is it really a crime?
An hour slips unseen
Inside our vanity
It’s 1 ‘O’ Clock at night
A century dies of AIDS
In the bed of dirty history
It’s time to bid farewell
To the time fading slowly
Get up from the graveyard
Nightmares are madly crowding
Who the hell knocks
Continuously on the doors?
Timely Questions
1 O’ clock: What’s the time now?
2 O’ clock: Whose time is this?
3 O’ clock: Have your time come?
4 O’ clock: Can you hold this storm like time?
5 O’ clock: Time bends time- is it so?
6 O’ clock: Are you simply killing time by killing nothing?
7 O’ clock: Have you decided your time to go?
8 O’ clock: Do the time stops itself sometimes?
9 O’ clock: Which time shall you come back?
10 O’ clock: Aren’t you time?
-Time is asking
These
To you
Wake up dear
Its already 11 O’clock now
You are too late
Get up, stand up
And
Answer her-
Just now!
On Fear
Afraid
A wet man is not afraid of rain
But he may be feeling so
There are confusions
All around the hometown
All around the nation
All around the globe
And there is clarity, too
It’s just like this
Zigzags
Everywhere
In feelings
And ideas
This is only the clue
The road of life
Is like a rope
Either you fall down yourself
Or you may be the champion of the show
This is not the last time
That you are hoping for the fine
This is not the first time
That you are feeling worse
It’s still not too late
Realise own mistakes
Before the dawn begins
Before the dawn behaves a task
Start digging on the road you would walk
Start joining your broken wings
Before the scattered dreams
Go far away from one another
Look at the flowers blooming inside you
And inside others
Believe it or not
I’m not telling an ugly truth
Every strength has got
A limit of its own
You can’t guess
Everything every time
Anything may happen any time
A dead man is not afraid of death
But he may be feeling so
A wet man is not afraid of rain
But he may be feeling so
There are confusions
All around the hometown
All around the nation
All around the globe
And there is clarity, too
It’s just like this
Zigzags
Everywhere
In feelings
And ideas
This is only the clue
The road of life
Is like a rope
Either you fall down yourself
Or you may be the champion of the show
This is not the last time
That you are hoping for the fine
This is not the first time
That you are feeling worse
It’s still not too late
Realise own mistakes
Before the dawn begins
Before the dawn behaves a task
Start digging on the road you would walk
Start joining your broken wings
Before the scattered dreams
Go far away from one another
Look at the flowers blooming inside you
And inside others
Believe it or not
I’m not telling an ugly truth
Every strength has got
A limit of its own
You can’t guess
Everything every time
Anything may happen any time
A dead man is not afraid of death
But he may be feeling so
Poem on Siliguri
Siliguri is Changing
The Sunday sun
Steps down slowly
On the limbs of Siliguri
Some of the shops are closed
When I walk
On the sweat drenched streets of Siliguri
Peoples are gossiping in crowd
Smoking biri in a busy cha-dokan
Preparing themselves for a new challenge
Of a new morning
Crows crew on top of a garbage heap
Desperate hawkers, balloon sellers, cloth sellers
All and all shout –
“Lijiye lijiye sasta hai!”
But their lives might be cheaper than their goods
I can touch
The hunger
Almost all over the body
Of this juvenile city
A motorcycle wishes me a methane smile
And shows its hurry by its reckless speed: “Hurry!”
This slogan is dispersed with the smoke of bike
On the sky, quite densely
O old Siliguri
Catchword tagged to you now is-
“Siliguri is Changing”
You are assuming perhaps
A commercial maturity
But as you are growing
Your crisis also grows
Bit by bit!
Of course, you are changing-
-You are inviting communal riots
-You are uprooting tea gardens
To establish big apartments
-You are acquiring lands of farmers
Of course
Siliguri has seen so many new happenings
And has shown so much new difficulties
Do you know my 'changing' Siliguri?
That you live in streets
In the bare streets barely
Where urgent lives leave
The marks of struggles
Their urgent struggles
Some of shops are opened
When I walk
On the question drenched streets of Siliguri
And one question followed me like my shadow
-"Siliguri is changing"
But towards which way?
The Sunday sun
Steps down slowly
On the limbs of Siliguri
Some of the shops are closed
When I walk
On the sweat drenched streets of Siliguri
Peoples are gossiping in crowd
Smoking biri in a busy cha-dokan
Preparing themselves for a new challenge
Of a new morning
Crows crew on top of a garbage heap
Desperate hawkers, balloon sellers, cloth sellers
All and all shout –
“Lijiye lijiye sasta hai!”
But their lives might be cheaper than their goods
I can touch
The hunger
Almost all over the body
Of this juvenile city
A motorcycle wishes me a methane smile
And shows its hurry by its reckless speed: “Hurry!”
This slogan is dispersed with the smoke of bike
On the sky, quite densely
O old Siliguri
Catchword tagged to you now is-
“Siliguri is Changing”
You are assuming perhaps
A commercial maturity
But as you are growing
Your crisis also grows
Bit by bit!
Of course, you are changing-
-You are inviting communal riots
-You are uprooting tea gardens
To establish big apartments
-You are acquiring lands of farmers
Of course
Siliguri has seen so many new happenings
And has shown so much new difficulties
Do you know my 'changing' Siliguri?
That you live in streets
In the bare streets barely
Where urgent lives leave
The marks of struggles
Their urgent struggles
Some of shops are opened
When I walk
On the question drenched streets of Siliguri
And one question followed me like my shadow
-"Siliguri is changing"
But towards which way?
Thursday, July 03, 2008
On Confusion
Cannibal Times
Come
I’ll eat you all
See
World has become
So much religious
(Even physics!)
And living so much expensive
You all are gods
Gods of your own world
I want to listen to your
Frustrations first
And
Wish to see
Masturbating
Before your own porno self
Go and
Sleep with the capitalists
In a city of communal riots
Class struggle
Demonstrates itself in
Class adjustments
All are violent and disturbed
In this risky
Peaceful co-existence
Democracy is
What people earn
Just as a bonded labour earns his privileges
Come
And
I’ll eat you all
I see me
In all of you
I see nothing
While I look at myself
Though I see
A lot
My mirror
These days
Scare me
I can’t keep gazing sky
Keep away that sky from me
The sky falls
On me
Cyborgs in Stone Age
The world has lost its art
History
Culture
Language
And real smile
The world has abundantly
Made sophisticated weapons
To kill and to be killed
But
Fewer medicines to save life
The world has its machines
Equipments, gadgets
For more efficiency and much effectivity
And for entertainment
The head is still there
But the world has lost its heart
‘Cyborgs’ -
Half human-Half machine
-Live in Stone Age
Where they hunt for profits
In everything
In love, in charity
Even in relationships
Emotion was stabbed to death
With Intellect-knife
Nobody is bare
Nothing uncovered
Even air and water are not transparent
Everything is covered with
Clear confusions
Fugitive
Fear of self
Is much deeper than
Fear of known enemies
We are running away from us
Shooting stars
Go away from planet
Run
Run
Run
It’s very difficult to face self
It’s hard to deny verdict of own mind
It’s easy to decieve self
But tough to escape punishment
Search of joy
Disrupts us at
All directions
A call comes
Continuously
From unseen abyss
Of self
One runs away from that call
There is no looking back
When eye opens
Everything seems to be devastated
You try to pick your belongings
But ash comes into your hand
Others are running
Everybody is running
One should run
Run away
From
Others
From self
Who’ll Bell the Cat?
Everybody is correct
Everyone justified
All is well
All intentions are pure
All are feeling
That
Life has become
Hell with complexities
Hypocrisy
And much show offs
We all know that
We wear our personalities
All around in society
We see
Masks after masks
Masks below masks
Masks above masks
I’m scared of my hidden self
I hide myself behind this mask
We are safe
We are masks
They’re just returning
From rally
Shouting slogans
It’s raining
They’re getting wet
The fascist cat is roaring like
A tiger
All are aware
All are convinced
That they’re
The ultimate prey
The question is-
Who’ll bell the cat?
Come
I’ll eat you all
See
World has become
So much religious
(Even physics!)
And living so much expensive
You all are gods
Gods of your own world
I want to listen to your
Frustrations first
And
Wish to see
Masturbating
Before your own porno self
Go and
Sleep with the capitalists
In a city of communal riots
Class struggle
Demonstrates itself in
Class adjustments
All are violent and disturbed
In this risky
Peaceful co-existence
Democracy is
What people earn
Just as a bonded labour earns his privileges
Come
And
I’ll eat you all
I see me
In all of you
I see nothing
While I look at myself
Though I see
A lot
My mirror
These days
Scare me
I can’t keep gazing sky
Keep away that sky from me
The sky falls
On me
Cyborgs in Stone Age
The world has lost its art
History
Culture
Language
And real smile
The world has abundantly
Made sophisticated weapons
To kill and to be killed
But
Fewer medicines to save life
The world has its machines
Equipments, gadgets
For more efficiency and much effectivity
And for entertainment
The head is still there
But the world has lost its heart
‘Cyborgs’ -
Half human-Half machine
-Live in Stone Age
Where they hunt for profits
In everything
In love, in charity
Even in relationships
Emotion was stabbed to death
With Intellect-knife
Nobody is bare
Nothing uncovered
Even air and water are not transparent
Everything is covered with
Clear confusions
Fugitive
Fear of self
Is much deeper than
Fear of known enemies
We are running away from us
Shooting stars
Go away from planet
Run
Run
Run
It’s very difficult to face self
It’s hard to deny verdict of own mind
It’s easy to decieve self
But tough to escape punishment
Search of joy
Disrupts us at
All directions
A call comes
Continuously
From unseen abyss
Of self
One runs away from that call
There is no looking back
When eye opens
Everything seems to be devastated
You try to pick your belongings
But ash comes into your hand
Others are running
Everybody is running
One should run
Run away
From
Others
From self
Who’ll Bell the Cat?
Everybody is correct
Everyone justified
All is well
All intentions are pure
All are feeling
That
Life has become
Hell with complexities
Hypocrisy
And much show offs
We all know that
We wear our personalities
All around in society
We see
Masks after masks
Masks below masks
Masks above masks
I’m scared of my hidden self
I hide myself behind this mask
We are safe
We are masks
They’re just returning
From rally
Shouting slogans
It’s raining
They’re getting wet
The fascist cat is roaring like
A tiger
All are aware
All are convinced
That they’re
The ultimate prey
The question is-
Who’ll bell the cat?
Poems on Darjeeling
Darjeeling deja’ vu
Silent roofs
Curl up inside
Purple fumes of uncertainty.
Courage-flags
T-r-e-m-b-l-e
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
Rocks
Sleeping Stones
Static Dynamisms
And
A Still Storm.
End of political eclipse
Defame
‘Apolitical’ stands
Famous till now.
People start talking
Moving
Loving
And living politics
For once again.
And now
Who can stop them?
They are in festive mood
Enjoying
In 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.”
Colonial Transitions
They said
Colonial transition
Will bring in the freedom for all.
Colony still exists
In the disguise of freedom.
So, this freedom
Seems to be a mask
For freedom itself.
Tourists may feel emancipated by seeing
The sunrise from Tiger Hill.
But Darjeeling itself
Starves
seriously
For
Emancipation.
Sometimes
Face becomes more important
Than bread.
Blending of bloods and tears
Yielded
World class aroma
Of
‘Darjeeling Tea’
for more than two hundred dry years.
Faceless Darjeeling fights for its
Face
Lost under colonial annals.
A history
Covered by imperial ruins
Waits
To be explored
In the riverbed of The Teesta.
Darjeeling Torso
Tea
Tourism
Timber
Toy Train
And
Tear
Smile! Smile!
See the ghost of glory
Behold the spectre of dignity
A live torso
Lies discriminated
And deserted on the floor
Of democratic nation
They love and serve the nation
They tune in to patriotic songs
Searching their heads
To live in pride and peace
And searching their legs to stand and walk firm:
They tell a spade a spade
They are taught family planning
And communal fraternity
By nation they mean
Rivers and mountains and deserts
What else more?
What they know
Is
The nation is deaf and dumb
People Cried
People cried
For water
-They got corruption.
People cried
For freedom
-They were labeled separatists.
People cried
For identity
-They were hit by lathis and bullets.
And now
What should they cry for?
Darjeeling Metamorphosis
The stretched silence was a womb
For a rebel tornado
Winds stumble against
Anti wave currents
Dry cough of hills
Relapse
Unknowingly
Confusions start growing
Again In the farming terrains
Hospitalised
Cinchona plant
Waits for its nutritious breakfast and medicine
Colonial tea plants
Sneak
On the creeping democratic land
World famous flora and fauna
Join laughing club
To learn the art of laughing
The storm
Stare
From behind
The shoulders of Kanchenjunga
Journey
Still remains to be covered
Houses
Are in fear of losing roofs
In the storm which is moving
Inside the rooms
Silent roofs
Curl up inside
Purple fumes of uncertainty.
Courage-flags
T-r-e-m-b-l-e
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
Rocks
Sleeping Stones
Static Dynamisms
And
A Still Storm.
End of political eclipse
Defame
‘Apolitical’ stands
Famous till now.
People start talking
Moving
Loving
And living politics
For once again.
And now
Who can stop them?
They are in festive mood
Enjoying
In 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.”
Colonial Transitions
They said
Colonial transition
Will bring in the freedom for all.
Colony still exists
In the disguise of freedom.
So, this freedom
Seems to be a mask
For freedom itself.
Tourists may feel emancipated by seeing
The sunrise from Tiger Hill.
But Darjeeling itself
Starves
seriously
For
Emancipation.
Sometimes
Face becomes more important
Than bread.
Blending of bloods and tears
Yielded
World class aroma
Of
‘Darjeeling Tea’
for more than two hundred dry years.
Faceless Darjeeling fights for its
Face
Lost under colonial annals.
A history
Covered by imperial ruins
Waits
To be explored
In the riverbed of The Teesta.
Darjeeling Torso
Tea
Tourism
Timber
Toy Train
And
Tear
Smile! Smile!
See the ghost of glory
Behold the spectre of dignity
A live torso
Lies discriminated
And deserted on the floor
Of democratic nation
They love and serve the nation
They tune in to patriotic songs
Searching their heads
To live in pride and peace
And searching their legs to stand and walk firm:
They tell a spade a spade
They are taught family planning
And communal fraternity
By nation they mean
Rivers and mountains and deserts
What else more?
What they know
Is
The nation is deaf and dumb
People Cried
People cried
For water
-They got corruption.
People cried
For freedom
-They were labeled separatists.
People cried
For identity
-They were hit by lathis and bullets.
And now
What should they cry for?
Darjeeling Metamorphosis
The stretched silence was a womb
For a rebel tornado
Winds stumble against
Anti wave currents
Dry cough of hills
Relapse
Unknowingly
Confusions start growing
Again In the farming terrains
Hospitalised
Cinchona plant
Waits for its nutritious breakfast and medicine
Colonial tea plants
Sneak
On the creeping democratic land
World famous flora and fauna
Join laughing club
To learn the art of laughing
The storm
Stare
From behind
The shoulders of Kanchenjunga
Journey
Still remains to be covered
Houses
Are in fear of losing roofs
In the storm which is moving
Inside the rooms
Tuesday, July 01, 2008
Moods & Tunes
Tears
We Die
But
w
e
n
e
v
e
r
d
i
e
Our eyes
Are filled
With
Tears
Our tear
Lives with us
The art
Of weeping
Saves
Civilization of emotions
Till date
We prescribe
Tears
For the age old wound
Of your
Die hard heart
We live
To weep
Our eyes
Are decorated
With
Tears
The Enemy
I realised
This morning
That I slept with my enemy
Friendly enemy
Loves you
More than your friend
Loves you
One learns
How to win over oneself
When
Others start defeating you
The Leaning Moon
Sky was
Empty
As empty as
A blank monitor
The moon
Was
Leaning
Against
The dark wall
Of a deserted house
That night
Moon had
Came to see
Sobbing old door
Somebody
Jumped out
Like a fox
From
Dark bush behind
And
Whispered
-Go back
You are obstacle for us!
A bird
Flew
Silently
Over the quiet roof
In that silent night
Moon
Was
Still
Leaning
Undoing Boredom
You may copy
A file of Happiness
From internet or others
And paste that easily
On your eyes and lips
You may still remain
Bored
Feel monotonous
It is others
And you
Who bore you
Cruelly
Copied file of happiness
Is not your own
We are seldom
Programmed by ourselves
Because others write our
Programming codes
I think
That we should
Think of unthinking
Futile thoughts
Life becomes a puzzle
Of pretending to live
Who else is relaxed
Today to be cool
And think hot
Creativity should be created
Not borrowed
Better to remain
Armature
To unlearn learnt
And save all what we learn finally
We may or may not delete
Useless messy doubts
Animate each moment
With multimedia dreams
We may or may not
Fight virus of complexes
Kill them
Before they grow
In our mind
Have own mind
So, don’t borrow
One should not rule over
One’s ‘self’
Enjoy defeats
Liberate liberty
Let songs sing
With their
Own voice for us
Let birds of vision
Search their own vistas
More speedy, more efficient
More accurate
Upgraded version of
Our follower would
Lead us
Passionately!
Vacuums
Wet eyes
In dry times
Moments freeze themselves
While glorious defeats
Start telling stories
Of unseen nightmares.
Footprints
On the road
Less traveled
-Alien?
-No that’s you!
So many things
To tell
So many
To see
So many
To live
So many things
Hold so many things
So many things
Give birth to
So many things
So many things
In this world
filled with
Vacuums.
Walking on the Edge
Wound knows
How to pain.
And
They say-
Time knows
How to heal.
Roads
Sometimes
May lead nowhere.
Words
Always
Don’t mean anything.
Every spring
Can’t ensure
Blossoms every year.
There may be a dark crack
Even in your colourful smile-
Who knows?
Who can measure
The collateral damage
Of emotions even in
Times of constructions of civilizations?
Revolutions
Sometimes become
Escape means
For frustrated minds.
Dirty words are ejaculated
Even from the clean mouths
Of Histories.
At the end of the day
There are times but
When time
Would not know how to heal.
And there are times
When histories have to be
Rewritten again
In new and fresh language
Because
Hard times
Move hardly.
We
Our words-
Tall lampposts without bulbs
On the streets orphanised
Our promise-
Drug addict fly
That walks lazily
On the edge of knife
Our dreams-
Kiwi
In a flying competition
Our angers-
Crazy foam
Inside beer bottle
Our action-
Camera
Without lens
Yes
Yes
I’m not going to argue.
It’s OK
You won.
You won
Absolutely
You won
At the cost of
Your own triumph.
We Die
But
w
e
n
e
v
e
r
d
i
e
Our eyes
Are filled
With
Tears
Our tear
Lives with us
The art
Of weeping
Saves
Civilization of emotions
Till date
We prescribe
Tears
For the age old wound
Of your
Die hard heart
We live
To weep
Our eyes
Are decorated
With
Tears
The Enemy
I realised
This morning
That I slept with my enemy
Friendly enemy
Loves you
More than your friend
Loves you
One learns
How to win over oneself
When
Others start defeating you
The Leaning Moon
Sky was
Empty
As empty as
A blank monitor
The moon
Was
Leaning
Against
The dark wall
Of a deserted house
That night
Moon had
Came to see
Sobbing old door
Somebody
Jumped out
Like a fox
From
Dark bush behind
And
Whispered
-Go back
You are obstacle for us!
A bird
Flew
Silently
Over the quiet roof
In that silent night
Moon
Was
Still
Leaning
Undoing Boredom
You may copy
A file of Happiness
From internet or others
And paste that easily
On your eyes and lips
You may still remain
Bored
Feel monotonous
It is others
And you
Who bore you
Cruelly
Copied file of happiness
Is not your own
We are seldom
Programmed by ourselves
Because others write our
Programming codes
I think
That we should
Think of unthinking
Futile thoughts
Life becomes a puzzle
Of pretending to live
Who else is relaxed
Today to be cool
And think hot
Creativity should be created
Not borrowed
Better to remain
Armature
To unlearn learnt
And save all what we learn finally
We may or may not delete
Useless messy doubts
Animate each moment
With multimedia dreams
We may or may not
Fight virus of complexes
Kill them
Before they grow
In our mind
Have own mind
So, don’t borrow
One should not rule over
One’s ‘self’
Enjoy defeats
Liberate liberty
Let songs sing
With their
Own voice for us
Let birds of vision
Search their own vistas
More speedy, more efficient
More accurate
Upgraded version of
Our follower would
Lead us
Passionately!
Vacuums
Wet eyes
In dry times
Moments freeze themselves
While glorious defeats
Start telling stories
Of unseen nightmares.
Footprints
On the road
Less traveled
-Alien?
-No that’s you!
So many things
To tell
So many
To see
So many
To live
So many things
Hold so many things
So many things
Give birth to
So many things
So many things
In this world
filled with
Vacuums.
Walking on the Edge
Wound knows
How to pain.
And
They say-
Time knows
How to heal.
Roads
Sometimes
May lead nowhere.
Words
Always
Don’t mean anything.
Every spring
Can’t ensure
Blossoms every year.
There may be a dark crack
Even in your colourful smile-
Who knows?
Who can measure
The collateral damage
Of emotions even in
Times of constructions of civilizations?
Revolutions
Sometimes become
Escape means
For frustrated minds.
Dirty words are ejaculated
Even from the clean mouths
Of Histories.
At the end of the day
There are times but
When time
Would not know how to heal.
And there are times
When histories have to be
Rewritten again
In new and fresh language
Because
Hard times
Move hardly.
We
Our words-
Tall lampposts without bulbs
On the streets orphanised
Our promise-
Drug addict fly
That walks lazily
On the edge of knife
Our dreams-
Kiwi
In a flying competition
Our angers-
Crazy foam
Inside beer bottle
Our action-
Camera
Without lens
Yes
Yes
I’m not going to argue.
It’s OK
You won.
You won
Absolutely
You won
At the cost of
Your own triumph.
Prose Poems
Soliloquy Hall
My grammar is weak. I’m strong in slangs only, I beg your pardon. Name is name of name. May I know your name? Dialogue delivery is not being smooth. Handicapped music is just mocking madly stretched eyes. Mad eyes. What I think now is that I should erase my discreet mumbling phonetics. One seems smart talking without speaking. I’m stranger as you are. What’s this ‘name’?
By the way, what to call cat in words? Today is Black Day. It is democracy here. In democracy, as you know very well, a spade is never told a spade. Tie your tongues with golden chain. And learn to speak with limited vocabulary. Otherwise join a school of language learning, your accent shall get so polished that you may even get superb entry in a call centre. It’s too boring to talk too long, you know! All should know buying and selling but ought not to know to speak.
I cry aloud a beast word. Echo mimes me. Language has its cunning limbs. I get to know to have cunning hands, cunning feet, cunning teeth, cunning eyes, cunning ears, too. But a programmed brain runs limited softwares. I mime my echo. I feel embarrassed and scared when A reappears and B vanishes forever on and from the stage. Impasto strokes of your word don’t mean the meaning. They are painted on the air, with the colourless brush of our thoughts.
Capitalism or communism – which one you choose to have? We should speak crystal clear with our tied tongues and chocking larynx. Vanilla or Strawberry – ice cream is chilled! Tell fast. And don’t forget to remember that the hall is full of audiences. They may forget but will never forgive. They can watch the observed. Listen the heard. All around us. Yes, we are there. Sitting cross-legged.
The Nest
That may not happen next time. That was a rare opportunity to have a glimpse of me. What I saw with my own eyes was me being chewed as a tart tobacco from all around by my fragmented virtual images.
Nobody shall be there when you are about to perish: you can examine this fact immediately by calling all your friends and enemies before you kill yourself. Man is basically alone even inside a crowd: each egg is alone but hatches in groups. One may easily unlearn socializing. I’m that fool who’s assertive of being a witty man. Pity on this foolish wise! Nobody knows what to say to others and what one wants to hear exactly in terms of emotions, intelligence and so many hitherto unknown compound parameters.
My trouser of satisfaction is not fitting on my reduced hip. I was ill a few days back. What should I do? Should I go out nude in the market to buy another? I don’t know anything. You never understand the paradoxes of the kinds such as- Why you are crazy about own wishes? What do you need from your friends? Why can’t you love your enemy? Where is your song you wanted to sing? Why do you want to live?
The nest is waiting to greet you with warmth of unknown genre and species. It is fully empty now. Birds have left for somewhere else. You may wait for others to arrive at.
How to fly in void? I may need medium for that. I’ve not testified yet. I, just now, have caressed holding in my palm and kissed a broken feather lying on the ground. Evening is tending towards us. Can we touch it? That dropped feather may be me. And the nest must have seen me seeing the seen hills, seen trees, seen horizon. Nothing is unseen among things seen, persons seen and events seen. I don’t know to know. I know nothing.
Exodus
The eyelids of the village bidding farewell are not able to hold tears. They are going away from here. Far away. Or closer. For where, they don’t know. They only can guess from what they have modelled in mathematics and projected as future course of time and space.
Industrial smoke madly licks the navel of sleeping sky. The blushed sky is still blue. And village still injured.
The polluted minds are filled with physical love and lust. Bodies are wrapped with hollow happiness.
They are heading towards water. They always try to lie themselves with the mirage of mars. Red planet holds unknown storms which may replace central and displace marginal.
They like to sing short cantos. Pathos enclaves in villages as their old village desperately look at them from behind.
They have left behind their bag of story. Villages are in troubled water.
Their history is dead. Their authors dead. Their identity dead.
The path leads there where they had once left themselves and from where hey had started their journey.
City holds them, kisses them, sucks them and tears them into heterogeneous fragments of objects. They feel enliven and enlightened. They grow old and become pale.
They hate system to love it. System makes them run. They leave to reach somewhere they didn’t wish they would. They remember their small cottage in their small village. They can’t and don’t weep. City is not a place to shed tears, rather a place to hit and run, lose and win.
They leave in groups. They run in groups. They go in groups only to be alone. Lonely efficient groups work in togetherness for optimization of productivity.
They can only memorize their village. Faintly in cloudy minds. Cannot realise now.
Lone Pine Tree & Her Dazzling Embroidery on Table Cloth
Lone pine tree noiselessly stands on awkward shoulder of uneven northern hill. Old eunuch sun puts on her cosmetics of curvy young clouds.
Last time when I saw you and talked with you (might be, without your willingness), what I found was a totally different you. I sincerely discovered that time; I was not the same person who used to be once before that. So, you are no more that simple girl. Even I am not that simple guy.
Reference frames have shifted for both of us now. And with no doubts, frames shall be continuously shifting and changing for all of us.
I thought for a while that we are now gentle puzzles. Who will solve us, I never know.
Blood rush inside curved veins. Attitudes, too. Reflection and refraction of motion search for equilibrium of something which ought to be always unstable.
I was talking to her in a rainy evening. I was just simply drawn mad seeing her dazzling embroidery done on her white table cloth. As if that whiteness of table cloth is aperture of faint hope as well as down memory lanes. So many easy straights mix up together to generate tough arcs of feelings and emotions. Stories. The show must go on - this unawkward and stereotype slogan seldom measures the radius of curvature of small things.
Straight droplets of water strike slant on the bare forehead only to remind your skew existence. Intercourse of straights produce locus for gyrations.
We are bound to admit- Nothing is straight in the world. Even straight lines aren’t straight.
Trees, roads, houses. Thoughts, feelings, words. They are gyrated. All are gyrated.
We are the lost wanderers of patterns of her embroidery. Technology has simplified our lifestyle. But not life. Economy kidnaps all and all are made prisoners of system. Poison may taste sweet. Alcohol of gossips liberate semiconscious minds. But what about reality of hyper impulses while in normalcy?
My grammar is weak. I’m strong in slangs only, I beg your pardon. Name is name of name. May I know your name? Dialogue delivery is not being smooth. Handicapped music is just mocking madly stretched eyes. Mad eyes. What I think now is that I should erase my discreet mumbling phonetics. One seems smart talking without speaking. I’m stranger as you are. What’s this ‘name’?
By the way, what to call cat in words? Today is Black Day. It is democracy here. In democracy, as you know very well, a spade is never told a spade. Tie your tongues with golden chain. And learn to speak with limited vocabulary. Otherwise join a school of language learning, your accent shall get so polished that you may even get superb entry in a call centre. It’s too boring to talk too long, you know! All should know buying and selling but ought not to know to speak.
I cry aloud a beast word. Echo mimes me. Language has its cunning limbs. I get to know to have cunning hands, cunning feet, cunning teeth, cunning eyes, cunning ears, too. But a programmed brain runs limited softwares. I mime my echo. I feel embarrassed and scared when A reappears and B vanishes forever on and from the stage. Impasto strokes of your word don’t mean the meaning. They are painted on the air, with the colourless brush of our thoughts.
Capitalism or communism – which one you choose to have? We should speak crystal clear with our tied tongues and chocking larynx. Vanilla or Strawberry – ice cream is chilled! Tell fast. And don’t forget to remember that the hall is full of audiences. They may forget but will never forgive. They can watch the observed. Listen the heard. All around us. Yes, we are there. Sitting cross-legged.
The Nest
That may not happen next time. That was a rare opportunity to have a glimpse of me. What I saw with my own eyes was me being chewed as a tart tobacco from all around by my fragmented virtual images.
Nobody shall be there when you are about to perish: you can examine this fact immediately by calling all your friends and enemies before you kill yourself. Man is basically alone even inside a crowd: each egg is alone but hatches in groups. One may easily unlearn socializing. I’m that fool who’s assertive of being a witty man. Pity on this foolish wise! Nobody knows what to say to others and what one wants to hear exactly in terms of emotions, intelligence and so many hitherto unknown compound parameters.
My trouser of satisfaction is not fitting on my reduced hip. I was ill a few days back. What should I do? Should I go out nude in the market to buy another? I don’t know anything. You never understand the paradoxes of the kinds such as- Why you are crazy about own wishes? What do you need from your friends? Why can’t you love your enemy? Where is your song you wanted to sing? Why do you want to live?
The nest is waiting to greet you with warmth of unknown genre and species. It is fully empty now. Birds have left for somewhere else. You may wait for others to arrive at.
How to fly in void? I may need medium for that. I’ve not testified yet. I, just now, have caressed holding in my palm and kissed a broken feather lying on the ground. Evening is tending towards us. Can we touch it? That dropped feather may be me. And the nest must have seen me seeing the seen hills, seen trees, seen horizon. Nothing is unseen among things seen, persons seen and events seen. I don’t know to know. I know nothing.
Exodus
The eyelids of the village bidding farewell are not able to hold tears. They are going away from here. Far away. Or closer. For where, they don’t know. They only can guess from what they have modelled in mathematics and projected as future course of time and space.
Industrial smoke madly licks the navel of sleeping sky. The blushed sky is still blue. And village still injured.
The polluted minds are filled with physical love and lust. Bodies are wrapped with hollow happiness.
They are heading towards water. They always try to lie themselves with the mirage of mars. Red planet holds unknown storms which may replace central and displace marginal.
They like to sing short cantos. Pathos enclaves in villages as their old village desperately look at them from behind.
They have left behind their bag of story. Villages are in troubled water.
Their history is dead. Their authors dead. Their identity dead.
The path leads there where they had once left themselves and from where hey had started their journey.
City holds them, kisses them, sucks them and tears them into heterogeneous fragments of objects. They feel enliven and enlightened. They grow old and become pale.
They hate system to love it. System makes them run. They leave to reach somewhere they didn’t wish they would. They remember their small cottage in their small village. They can’t and don’t weep. City is not a place to shed tears, rather a place to hit and run, lose and win.
They leave in groups. They run in groups. They go in groups only to be alone. Lonely efficient groups work in togetherness for optimization of productivity.
They can only memorize their village. Faintly in cloudy minds. Cannot realise now.
Lone Pine Tree & Her Dazzling Embroidery on Table Cloth
Lone pine tree noiselessly stands on awkward shoulder of uneven northern hill. Old eunuch sun puts on her cosmetics of curvy young clouds.
Last time when I saw you and talked with you (might be, without your willingness), what I found was a totally different you. I sincerely discovered that time; I was not the same person who used to be once before that. So, you are no more that simple girl. Even I am not that simple guy.
Reference frames have shifted for both of us now. And with no doubts, frames shall be continuously shifting and changing for all of us.
I thought for a while that we are now gentle puzzles. Who will solve us, I never know.
Blood rush inside curved veins. Attitudes, too. Reflection and refraction of motion search for equilibrium of something which ought to be always unstable.
I was talking to her in a rainy evening. I was just simply drawn mad seeing her dazzling embroidery done on her white table cloth. As if that whiteness of table cloth is aperture of faint hope as well as down memory lanes. So many easy straights mix up together to generate tough arcs of feelings and emotions. Stories. The show must go on - this unawkward and stereotype slogan seldom measures the radius of curvature of small things.
Straight droplets of water strike slant on the bare forehead only to remind your skew existence. Intercourse of straights produce locus for gyrations.
We are bound to admit- Nothing is straight in the world. Even straight lines aren’t straight.
Trees, roads, houses. Thoughts, feelings, words. They are gyrated. All are gyrated.
We are the lost wanderers of patterns of her embroidery. Technology has simplified our lifestyle. But not life. Economy kidnaps all and all are made prisoners of system. Poison may taste sweet. Alcohol of gossips liberate semiconscious minds. But what about reality of hyper impulses while in normalcy?
Political Strokes
Singur Saturday
That Saturday,
Creeping through the naked sky
Terror eclipsed sun
Blindly commits suicide.
Blue tongue
Hang on shamefully between
Shameless eunuch jaws.
□
Morning begins
With Protest Blossoms and
Wordy eruptions.
Morning matures with
Lathis and rifles.
And slangs
-“…suworer bacchha saalaa, aay…”
Mourning morn
Disappears in melancholy
With tears, cries and bloods.
□
A child looks
Into a vacant patch of loaded sky
Desperately with pale eyes
For something else
Perhaps for a football, a slate
or his slain future
He’s standing
On the ruin of democracy.
□
The cat walk of justice
On the ramp of “Communism”
Simulates erotic sense of Tatas, Ambanis, Bennis…
□
There, the tyrants are writing epitaph
For dying people
And writing welcome graphity
For corporate tycoons.
But singers of soil
Are tearing off the glamorous mask
Out of the vulgar face of Development-
Development at the gunpoint!
□
SEZ-
Special Eviction Zone
Social Eradication Zoo
Soul Erasing Zygote
SEZ’s are being created for
The creators of people’s car.
The other day farmer’s little son would ask
To his father flatly-
“Would you buy that car for me, baba?”
The answerless farmer would answer-
“My dear, I can’t buy back even our life bought by them”
□
Political power runs by
Rifles and cartridges
And power empowers powerful.
Power is yet to become power of powerless.
Its F A R
That little innocent boy
When he grows up
Then one day he would learn this reality
From his school of life.
□
A hard evening
Falls hardly
On the faint furious fields
Of Singur.
Doomed are the people.
Their dim eyes
Stretch wider and wider
With darkness deepening.
Democracy
Tiger-
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.
Sunrise
At 5 P.M. to-day.
It Sounds Political
After all
Every question of the world
Boils down to the question of survival.
They say
They need to say so-
Love makes the difference.
But most of the times
They say only
Upside down of the things.
Who intoxicates
Our thoughts then
With sword like sweet words?
Their TV, their radio
Their media, their literature
They say
They badly need to say so
They are right
And our judgement should prove them right.
And when
We place some question
Forcing them to listen
They are irritated
And they say dizzily
-“You ain’t sound
That much political.”
That Saturday,
Creeping through the naked sky
Terror eclipsed sun
Blindly commits suicide.
Blue tongue
Hang on shamefully between
Shameless eunuch jaws.
□
Morning begins
With Protest Blossoms and
Wordy eruptions.
Morning matures with
Lathis and rifles.
And slangs
-“…suworer bacchha saalaa, aay…”
Mourning morn
Disappears in melancholy
With tears, cries and bloods.
□
A child looks
Into a vacant patch of loaded sky
Desperately with pale eyes
For something else
Perhaps for a football, a slate
or his slain future
He’s standing
On the ruin of democracy.
□
The cat walk of justice
On the ramp of “Communism”
Simulates erotic sense of Tatas, Ambanis, Bennis…
□
There, the tyrants are writing epitaph
For dying people
And writing welcome graphity
For corporate tycoons.
But singers of soil
Are tearing off the glamorous mask
Out of the vulgar face of Development-
Development at the gunpoint!
□
SEZ-
Special Eviction Zone
Social Eradication Zoo
Soul Erasing Zygote
SEZ’s are being created for
The creators of people’s car.
The other day farmer’s little son would ask
To his father flatly-
“Would you buy that car for me, baba?”
The answerless farmer would answer-
“My dear, I can’t buy back even our life bought by them”
□
Political power runs by
Rifles and cartridges
And power empowers powerful.
Power is yet to become power of powerless.
Its F A R
That little innocent boy
When he grows up
Then one day he would learn this reality
From his school of life.
□
A hard evening
Falls hardly
On the faint furious fields
Of Singur.
Doomed are the people.
Their dim eyes
Stretch wider and wider
With darkness deepening.
Democracy
Tiger-
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.
Sunrise
At 5 P.M. to-day.
It Sounds Political
After all
Every question of the world
Boils down to the question of survival.
They say
They need to say so-
Love makes the difference.
But most of the times
They say only
Upside down of the things.
Who intoxicates
Our thoughts then
With sword like sweet words?
Their TV, their radio
Their media, their literature
They say
They badly need to say so
They are right
And our judgement should prove them right.
And when
We place some question
Forcing them to listen
They are irritated
And they say dizzily
-“You ain’t sound
That much political.”
Nano Level
Merely
We see
The visible
We hear
The audible
We touch
The tangible
[And this and that]
We live
Like this
When our life
Lives in us
When there is
Nothing to be seen
Nothing to be heard
Nothing to be touched
At that time, too
We see
We hear
We touch
Even invisible
Even inaudible
Even intangible
It’s because
Mere
Seeing
Hearing
Touching
Don’t ensure the truth
Don’t guarantee a pure living.
Nameless
No
Don’t blame
Don’t blame it
Merely for namesake.
Its ‘being’
Has no any name
At all.
Not to have any name
Not to have any face
Not to have any space
Not to have any colour
Is to have a lot of things
A lot of affairs
A lot of difficulties
A lot of reasons
Names are imposed
To nameless
As the punishment to the innocents
Faces are implanted
To faceless
As the ideology to emotional society
So
Don’t blame
Don’t blame it
For it is nameless
Pedagogy of Life
They took blood
They took sweats
-Gave tears
They took to-morrows
They took to-days
-Gave yesterdays
They took almost everything
Left nothing
Now that
This Nothingness
Is the capital
The sole weapon
We’ll fight back
We’ll come back
We are waking up
To the morn
Pedagogy of our life tells that
Light rays
Always don’t propagate
In straight lines.
Signs
Signs
Are always there
Everywhere
Of a new
Era
To be born.
But when-
Nobody knows
As because
Time only metmorphosises.
Time
Keeps record
Of our
Vicious Circle
Of dynamic narratives.
We see
The visible
We hear
The audible
We touch
The tangible
[And this and that]
We live
Like this
When our life
Lives in us
When there is
Nothing to be seen
Nothing to be heard
Nothing to be touched
At that time, too
We see
We hear
We touch
Even invisible
Even inaudible
Even intangible
It’s because
Mere
Seeing
Hearing
Touching
Don’t ensure the truth
Don’t guarantee a pure living.
Nameless
No
Don’t blame
Don’t blame it
Merely for namesake.
Its ‘being’
Has no any name
At all.
Not to have any name
Not to have any face
Not to have any space
Not to have any colour
Is to have a lot of things
A lot of affairs
A lot of difficulties
A lot of reasons
Names are imposed
To nameless
As the punishment to the innocents
Faces are implanted
To faceless
As the ideology to emotional society
So
Don’t blame
Don’t blame it
For it is nameless
Pedagogy of Life
They took blood
They took sweats
-Gave tears
They took to-morrows
They took to-days
-Gave yesterdays
They took almost everything
Left nothing
Now that
This Nothingness
Is the capital
The sole weapon
We’ll fight back
We’ll come back
We are waking up
To the morn
Pedagogy of our life tells that
Light rays
Always don’t propagate
In straight lines.
Signs
Signs
Are always there
Everywhere
Of a new
Era
To be born.
But when-
Nobody knows
As because
Time only metmorphosises.
Time
Keeps record
Of our
Vicious Circle
Of dynamic narratives.
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