Memories

Pale,frail,cold and somnolence etched over her wrinkled face.Her dark unforgiveable eyes were drawing me closer to her as it used to do when we were staying together as strangers,years ago.

I couldn’t remember more until she caught my trembling hands and took me to the corner,from where,I could not see her half lit face but could see how the faint street light was playing in abundance over her long flowing overgrown skirt…

Before any words were out I could feel a tangy old slice of a lemon like scent over my mouth and all I could do was leaving the scent spread my unforgiving body and I close my eyes in an anticipation…

It was not that too long that it would seem like a moment of stillness had arrived but the rains had come uninviting causing a strange bereavement.

As she was walking away I know that I lost nothing but my memories, stocked in the corner of my half torn coat,unused and unworn..

Scent…

Gondho churi kore tomar buker majhe ekti chotto til jodi eke dite partam,
tobe hoyto abaro bosonto chhute partam…

( language : Bengali)

If only I could steal a scent and draw a tiny black mole on your fairy chest,
maybe I could touch the Spring,again…

Why do I have to Love You?

In your last letter you asked why do I have to Love you when you are far and unseen.

Why do I choose to love you through words,and yet no signs of our lips meeting for the seasons to come by.

All I can say is nothing but feel your yellow shadows covering the seven seas and painting my unfinished painting of the daffodils.

All I can say is that with you Neruda has come alive again on my chest and a rhythm of an old irish river unfolding in my memories, quaint and near…

Love,Locks,Winds, lil’ drops of rain and those lovely Yellows…

My Love for her has nothing to do with my love for rains….
She resembles so much to the magnolia, i have had for long, swaying, next to my childhood windows.

I remember how my worn out magenta sharpener, holding my faint yellow pencils, used to give away in between and sit tight,
while i used to helplessly look at those swaying magnolias and couldn’t draw their flowing locks,
spreading lil’ drops of water here and there on my tables with the rains over it…

My love for her is borne out of my desire to draw locks, winds, lil’ drops of rain and those lovely yellows,
on my left over, frail white, pages of scrapbook..

Rains…

What happens when rains come?

A deep lust loose free from the gathering rusts on the forsaken skin,
pale green algae starts climbing on the shallow damp heart.

And?

Uninterrupted words taking so many helenic shapes, starts floating, just above my balcony!

You?

Deeply waiting for the unfinished sex to write her stories on my melancholic grey bed…

Rains, Silence, Scent, You & Poetry…

1. Rains…

Memories are Epileptic. Did you ever wanted to think that way? If you do you would realise that some memories go through a momentary freeze. A disorder. Never to be reclaimed ever. They lie hidden and cold between the existence of us.

2. Silence…

“Can I love you the way your hair loves this earth?
Can I hid within you as the harshness of a man usurps my soul?
Will you once again sing the gypsy song,
always sung to make the amends of the ravages caused by the war ? “

3. Scent…

Will you sing a song for me,
simple and easy?

Will you write me a letter,
describing how a scent of fresh rain falls on your kohl lit eyes and,
reaching to your half open trembling lips?

Will you please kiss me for the last time, before you walk away from me,
and I burn the sky?”

4. You

‘how I mellow in your glowing skin, how I twist my ankles to see your lunar eyes.
how you melt within my amber chest, how you took away my sorrow and plant a red kiss.
How you and I are never told…..”

5. Poetry

Someday I will wither and lie beside those fallen leaves.
Someday I will become your memories, past and grey.

Someday I will not fear anymore the way I look at me.
Someday I will not try to know what it takes to be your love.

Before that someday let me at least live now…”

Rains…

Do I mourn the coming rain and the absence of your full lips on my dry, withering leaves?

Or,

Do I sing the songs of a greyish lust entering through the cracks of my broken stems, and a waiting melancholia?

As those tiny droplets make it’s way through my pale yellowish veins, let me just celebrate the coming weeks of rhythm and percussions….

In Praise of the King…

Long live the King!
Long live the King!

Let the plagues come and let the cholera sing,
Long live the King!
Long live the King!
And of course Long live the King!

Let the scarecrow fly and let the black Crow eat your eye,
Long live the King!
Long live the King!
And of course Long live the King!

Let us all starve to die and let the rivers go dry,
Long live the King!
Long live the King!
And of course Long live the King!

Let the arms are high and as much we can buy,
Let the war song sung and millions of deads sigh,
Long live the King!
Long live the King!
And of course Long live the King!

Songs of Silence…

Songs of silence is often sung,
with words,
resounding, somnolent, alone!

Songs of silence is often sung,
while a river of burning water
passes in the dark,
drowned in the shadows
and as the harsh ship’s wind inhabits you!

Songs of silence is often sung,
with the leaves of the violins,
until the mosses take root in the thunder,
until from the pulse of hand and hand
the roots descend …..

Songs of silence is often sung,
with the delirious heat of
dejection, spelled out of love !

Crossed in Love…

Her fingers , soft and nimble,at times, trembling as the last tidal waves does so on the rocks … Her face , veiled and uncertain,at times, beseiged by the passing …