Tuesday, July 01, 2008

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.


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?

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