Thursday, November 21, 2013

Smell of an old book

Often when wintry smog blankets my distance corn fields
in no time fumes of reminiscences come out of a familiar chimney.

One by one cranes in curve of my eye balls pass by.

The smell of Mahua flowers fills up my heart.

Then I am back to me with excess of it.

Often when the four walls of my existence entraps me in sombre,
Mahua again comes from inside an old book. .

At once Basabadutta gives a nubile blink.

The cloud sets out as the messenger of Yakshya.

and in idleness I think of an appointment with J M Keynes and Lenin.

Saturday, November 16, 2013

A ring of paper..

In a marooned afternoon nothing works.

Add a little more sugar to a cup of coffee;
either it melts too tough or too tender 
on the pallet of tongue.

Have you ever seen a paper ring rolling 
there in a marooned afternoon?

It certainly hasn't rolled many afternoons
like a gladiolus in the garden.

But it aches when a paper ring rolls..
Because in a marooned afternoon
 a dirge is heard on death of a baby
yet to be inside womb..

Friday, November 15, 2013


Fallen leaves are lifted up by the breeze.

A silent void awakens on tree barks.

Twilight veils up a deep dark curtain
wiping off the far away foot prints.

I look around. 
 The sea by my side is not visible anymore. 
Only I can hear the roar.

I look back at my abode.
It's not far.

But I can't walk down there.

The sandy realism has intensified
and I am lifted by something beyond reason.