Tuesday, July 01, 2008

Moods & Tunes


We Die





Our eyes
Are filled

Our tear
Lives with us

The art
Of weeping
Civilization of emotions
Till date

We prescribe
For the age old wound
Of your
Die hard heart

We live
To weep

Our eyes
Are decorated

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
Others start defeating you

The Leaning Moon

Sky was
As empty as
A blank monitor

The moon
The dark wall
Of a deserted house

That night
Moon had
Came to see
Sobbing old door

Jumped out
Like a fox
Dark bush behind

-Go back
You are obstacle for us!

A bird
Over the quiet roof
In that silent night


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
Feel monotonous

It is others
And you
Who bore you

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
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



Wet eyes
In dry times

Moments freeze themselves
While glorious defeats
Start telling stories
Of unseen nightmares.

On the road
Less traveled


-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

Walking on the Edge

Wound knows
How to pain.
They say-
Time knows
How to heal.

May lead nowhere.

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?

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

Hard times
Move hardly.


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-
In a flying competition

Our angers-
Crazy foam
Inside beer bottle

Our action-
Without lens


I’m not going to argue.

It’s OK
You won.

You won

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.


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!

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.


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.

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


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
Don’t ensure the truth
Don’t guarantee a pure living.


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

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.


Are always there
Of a new
To be born.

But when-
Nobody knows
As because
Time only metmorphosises.

Keeps record
Of our
Vicious Circle
Of dynamic narratives.