Sunday, May 30, 2010

Even the white Parliament
Looks  so green
Through syrup bottles

And broken radio
commentaries on
test match cricket

men in white
play in the fields
open green
and the street vendor sleeps

Water Colour On Silk

In this wooden box
Green
preserved with care
were,
selected memories.

Yesterday, 
carefully
taking off the lid
Thinking of drying the letters
after the damp drizzle

you know how rainy
it has been.

An angry angst of
Black Moths
fluttered out
into light .

Worried,  
Anxious,

fingers
cut with rust.

The
water colour on silk
had turned to dust.
Under the Grey dome of June sky
Alone.
Met Office and his
jaded soul
had yesterday
proclaimed -
Depression.

But then 

The shining blade of
the rain drenched  grass
Green and youthful
Beautiful and proud
oblivious to all around

Something
struck him with wonder
and
Embarrassed,
and embraced by
happy melancholia

he sang a
Rain song

Saturday, May 29, 2010

Intoxicating was
last light's moon.

Waking up at noon
delirium  -  confused

Oh !

At my door
wearing green
first monsoon

Thursday, May 27, 2010

If only you dissolved in me
like salt in ocean water
inseparable lovers we would be
and the world would bathe in us
Coffee -
the nausea of waking early
Why talk using metaphors ?
Why pour slimy poetry ?
Don't you know what
I am talking about ?

The scribbles - the wall - the ugly
its all just about me

Wednesday, May 26, 2010

Poems from those days
now lay unloved on the wooden
table -- still moist from last
monsoon

And

the songs still carry
the faint fragrance
of eucalyptus bark
and familiar colognes

Come new rain
Bring new songs
Bring new poems
Bring flowers white
that no one ever saw
just for me
will you ?

Friday, May 21, 2010

From this place
to that
lush hills
dry flats

He traveled
enough
and for long

Taking a pause
he thought
its time now
that I rest
and listen to
some song

but then on his
table wooden
a letter waited

with rain and
breeze from
distant land

and a new walk
began

Photographer at 55

He lived in a forest
in a wooden house
One that smelled of Birch
and tobacco
cherry pipe

The woods had wolves
and he lived alone
Beyond the hills
shady gloom
memories lived
like money in
some bank account

No
It was really a studio
I mean
If you walk down the living room
you'd brush against
curtains green
chequered.

then at the door
a jump cut
to blackness
and
red light
and Ilford
100 ISOs

Yesterday after a
moderate storm
when the wind tracked down the
walls
and the candle flickered

The black telephone
beside the
large photograph
He wished for
the other side
the 30 yrs ago
where a smile was waiting
to say
I'm proud of you
artiste my love

he knew he was quite
a dilettante though

next came rain
and the candle died

and late that night
when the wolves were hunting
he dream't of
Saraghina

Tuesday, May 18, 2010

Once he hated
cockroaches
INTENSELY
and loved the
long train
journeys

now the creature is
just a mere insect
and transit times
short and thin

what else could
death mean ..
one hundred years ago
the moist sky -
the black still ocean -
your eyes
Monsoon.

After the storm
cello and flute
Noah's arc
yellow green
and butterflies
fluttering

3rd of may
your teeth
pomegranate seeds
painted lips
brown chop stick
white porcelain -

a crooked fork
with a broken tine
coffee cups with
cracks of time

And
sour lemonade
garnished

with Grey moths
with large
stiff wings

Wednesday, May 12, 2010

Like a coffee shop
life has been
MEGH thought
while reading
comics

With
people coming
chit chatting
and leaving then
of-course

Leaving nothing
except the faint
hope of the
rendezvous
next one

familiar
acquaintances
some pretty ones

And
rainy days
crimson suns
maintenance
required
shouts everyone

And at night
the last dish wash
all the fancy lights
goes off

only to sleep till
next newspaper brings
fresh fragrance of
brewing coffee

Monday, May 10, 2010

when all that seemed
truer than life itself
vanishes as obviously as death
one can only say
"it was inevitable"
The leaves that fell in
last night's storm
wept to sleep
like hungry children

News ink

bicycle bells

As I sip my tea
and my Kolkata awakes
Kanchenjunga is
Turning Golden
Coffee -
the haze of morning mist
Tuesday.

Restless
in the dark
I didn't notice

a fresh coat of paint
that this wall needs
Or

Did this ugly scar
just happen
last night ?

4:35 am

in another hour or so
there shall be light ..
I know

Some old watchman will wake up
to the sound of alarm clock
and say
"let there be light"
and there would be so

I am not a morning person
but amidst all the chaos
I love this bliss of certainty
Maybe, the next step is
just the start
of another circle
And a circle has no end.
is death like sleep
or
is it like waking up into light
is it cold
or
is it warm

Sunday, May 9, 2010

The storm did come
but the heap of dried leaves remained
Only to ferment in the rain
There still remain
a million poems untold
and colors new in the artist's palette
and remains so much love
and deceit
and so many
new stories to unfold

Manj Khamaj

The shelf had dictionaries and
poem books.
Books colorful
and looked good.

Green - the yellow sun
painted the wrinkled bed sheet
with a Spring of youthful lust

and the
burnt sienna of your parted lips
shivered with soundless
utterances of
love

Saturday, May 8, 2010

Ménage à trois

It could be
coffee - cookies and chocolates
or you - me and a raging monsoon
Drenched in June
first monsoon
the muddy path turn
into mist

And a purple evening
dripping green
foliage moist
gloomy hill

Monastery bells
and clouds rumble
wrapping tight the
shawl woolen

chilled and numb
desiring warmth
where are you
my hill station

of love

Wednesday, May 5, 2010

The car sped
wilderness dark
And - neon lit
dusty rain - on
windscreen glass
running up like
fanatic sperms
ready to fertilize
million words
cloud around the broken nib
and a shadowy verse
seeks his poet

tired evening - sleeps
gloomy morning - wakes

Caffeine - azure sky
Cigarette - Grey ocean

the one word
the one moment of
epiphany

is missing
is missing
3'o clock - gusty wisp of
sudden rain
splashing water splattered soul
moist earth - earth worm

slate Grey noon
smears black ink of night
of rain songs and dripping drops
of smeared thoughts
fragrant past

traffic light green
traffic light red
umbrellas black
and spilled diesel
smearing paint in
thousand colors
city in rain
city in rain

when a million angst
in gushing torrents
stream down the
lonely paths
all that remains
A beautiful phantasm
or a melancholic void ..