Watching the mannequins at a shop window,
their expectant eyes tethered to routine reveries,
I notice a monotony in their smile.
You told me
smiles and daydreams are soap bubbles,
iridescent and fragile, capable of making you
unaware for a while
of the darkness that lingers
at the corner of your eye.
I observe the wide grins
of inert human forms
placed behind clean glasses, and realize
that my existence resembles that of
dummy sitters; each single day imply
progress of identical shadows...
A bubble-maker churns out soft globes
in a flurry; dream-planets keep fading
into the universe
Overwhelmed by you, Kolkata
I do not know
when you became poetry for me
or when your autumn wind brought in
the abounding fragrance of a maiden's hair
I do not know
how these whining buses and car horns
filled up the gaps in our converse
You and me sitting together
at a street-side cafe near twilight
and the sounds of a day transgressing
into darkness
I remember the glint in your eyes
as if they can interpret the meaning
of my fumbling with words
You casually concealed your laughter
with a flimsy innocence
Yet when did I care for your feelings...
You've got to be mine
the rhyme of your life
has to be understood by no one else
but me
You might have had a hundred lovers
but its only me who can persuade you
to immerse in moonlight
when you became poetry for me
or when your autumn wind brought in
the abounding fragrance of a maiden's hair
I do not know
how these whining buses and car horns
filled up the gaps in our converse
You and me sitting together
at a street-side cafe near twilight
and the sounds of a day transgressing
into darkness
I remember the glint in your eyes
as if they can interpret the meaning
of my fumbling with words
You casually concealed your laughter
with a flimsy innocence
Yet when did I care for your feelings...
You've got to be mine
the rhyme of your life
has to be understood by no one else
but me
You might have had a hundred lovers
but its only me who can persuade you
to immerse in moonlight
The grief that engulfed me
A wave that engulfed me
when you told you were leaving
took years to subside
That day I realized
a weak scent lingers
after the withering of a flower
I imagine my grief
twirling like snakes made of smoke
arising from a jasmine agarbati
relentlessly taking their forms
endlessly fading into oblivion
From that day I've been living
beside a sea
observing rain clouds fondle the sun
at wee hours
And I've grown accustomed
to the vacant vault of the blue
in autumn
From that day
I yearn to see yellow butterflies
hopping over dandelions
No I haven't re-opened
my doors
yet neither have I ignored
the fragrance of jasmine
or the sounds of the sea
A whiff of breeze blows a dust
of memories
revealing bizarre fossils
this twilight
when you told you were leaving
took years to subside
That day I realized
a weak scent lingers
after the withering of a flower
I imagine my grief
twirling like snakes made of smoke
arising from a jasmine agarbati
relentlessly taking their forms
endlessly fading into oblivion
From that day I've been living
beside a sea
observing rain clouds fondle the sun
at wee hours
And I've grown accustomed
to the vacant vault of the blue
in autumn
From that day
I yearn to see yellow butterflies
hopping over dandelions
No I haven't re-opened
my doors
yet neither have I ignored
the fragrance of jasmine
or the sounds of the sea
A whiff of breeze blows a dust
of memories
revealing bizarre fossils
this twilight
Traveler
As I look behind
the road seems to have emerged
from a ribbon
As I look ahead
the road appears to end
into a similar one
Who's holding it straight & taut
this mid-portion of life
I recall visiting pyramids
the tombs made of stones
and wonder
Who could have lifted that last block
up there
I'm told that the wind though gentle
is capable of eroding memories
and I've witnessed the vagaries
of sandstorms
And still I have doubts
how the cool zephyr of dawn
can transform itself
I've wandered through towns
and its market places
I've traced vinegar in the smell
of a cobbler's hut
And I've roamed the graveyards
with their rows of white crosses
jutting out of the auburn grass
of autumn
I've questioned me
Do you see yourself amidst them
the sleeping warriors
I find myself on the bridge of my destiny
One end the bridge
seems to have emerged
from a quiet dawn
And the other lost to a rising mist
blurring every thing lying beyond
the road seems to have emerged
from a ribbon
As I look ahead
the road appears to end
into a similar one
Who's holding it straight & taut
this mid-portion of life
I recall visiting pyramids
the tombs made of stones
and wonder
Who could have lifted that last block
up there
I'm told that the wind though gentle
is capable of eroding memories
and I've witnessed the vagaries
of sandstorms
And still I have doubts
how the cool zephyr of dawn
can transform itself
I've wandered through towns
and its market places
I've traced vinegar in the smell
of a cobbler's hut
And I've roamed the graveyards
with their rows of white crosses
jutting out of the auburn grass
of autumn
I've questioned me
Do you see yourself amidst them
the sleeping warriors
I find myself on the bridge of my destiny
One end the bridge
seems to have emerged
from a quiet dawn
And the other lost to a rising mist
blurring every thing lying beyond
2 haiku
1.
a sand dune
furrowed by the wind
grandmother’s face
2.
silent movie—
she refuses
the rose
a sand dune
furrowed by the wind
grandmother’s face
2.
silent movie—
she refuses
the rose
The woodpecker drumming
The woodpecker
has been tapping on a nearby oak
since the daybreak.
Its persistent beating
a hollow branch, echoes the bareness
of autumn :
Am I simply a countable head in a crowd,
a leaf on a tree, or a branch,
empty inside?
Am I a poet scripting verses for the wind,
or am I similar to an archaic coin, tossed
to a pauper’s bowl, rattling along
throughout the season?
What about the faces I meet every day
in the marketplace, are their lives
marked by price tags?
I feel for the bird, which needs
to assert its identity
which keeps on drumming
at a roadside park
since dawn.
has been tapping on a nearby oak
since the daybreak.
Its persistent beating
a hollow branch, echoes the bareness
of autumn :
Am I simply a countable head in a crowd,
a leaf on a tree, or a branch,
empty inside?
Am I a poet scripting verses for the wind,
or am I similar to an archaic coin, tossed
to a pauper’s bowl, rattling along
throughout the season?
What about the faces I meet every day
in the marketplace, are their lives
marked by price tags?
I feel for the bird, which needs
to assert its identity
which keeps on drumming
at a roadside park
since dawn.
Travelling down the road with you
So often I dream about a summer:
a slim road paved with cobble-stones,
wriggling its way through age-old dwellings
with you by my side. We're both hushed, both
pensive, with hands tucked inside our pockets.
We arrive at an emerald pond
with its population of ducks: dabbling,
quacking, diving into depths of the only syllables
they know. We offer them our sympathy.
Dusk grows, and the alpenglow reflects in your
eye. Soon, a soft fog would further blur our surrounds,
and you'd mingle into dark, much like an apparition.
My lethargic footfalls would ricochet off the walls
of a half-lit bylane, with one or two street-lamps
near its bends.
We are strangers at each others’ door,
yet some afternoons burn into evenings
with our shadows traveling
alongside.
a slim road paved with cobble-stones,
wriggling its way through age-old dwellings
with you by my side. We're both hushed, both
pensive, with hands tucked inside our pockets.
We arrive at an emerald pond
with its population of ducks: dabbling,
quacking, diving into depths of the only syllables
they know. We offer them our sympathy.
Dusk grows, and the alpenglow reflects in your
eye. Soon, a soft fog would further blur our surrounds,
and you'd mingle into dark, much like an apparition.
My lethargic footfalls would ricochet off the walls
of a half-lit bylane, with one or two street-lamps
near its bends.
We are strangers at each others’ door,
yet some afternoons burn into evenings
with our shadows traveling
alongside.
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