my voice

sohorey aaj brishti...

2007-08-10T23:26:00.000-07:00

Lost love of a versifier...

2007-06-28T23:40:00.000-07:00

I loved her with all my heart,
The muse of my script.
What she did?
She laughed; she scorned and made fun of me.
Without even noticing how it hurts,
She just went on disquieting me.

A devoted versifying soul,
Whose hub of spirit fountain her name.
Crying loud to draw her pity,
(surely) that’s all in vain.
She had no notice of me,
Neither did she know that I adored,
Or may be, with her usual air,
She just pretended…

How can this be true?
That she doesn’t know.
I conceived her granted gaze,
Or was it just a show?
Some blurred images haunt my mind...
Of the days which passed by,
Of the days when she was with me.
When she was right beside,
When my pen made it high,
Lively presence of a heavenly being.

Oh! What were those days,
With you and your terms.
With your fragrance all around,
Days were so glinting,
Grief had no space to fill.
As no pleasure last for long,
So did our love had gone,
So did our merry ended,
And we met never.
But I am still waiting,
Waiting for my muse;
Days will come for sure,
When words will again sprout.

Cassandra fable...

2007-06-07T09:12:00.000-07:00

Baby Cassandra...

Baby Cassandra bubbling high,
Who'll listen to a blurting child?
She is sweet, they call her cute,
She’s a doll, she’s no muse.
Life she knows little,
Little baby Cassandra.
Take her to the fairyland,
So the angels embrace her.

Bumming Cassandra...

A fable in the modern days,
On the roads of a metropolis.
Wandering about in search of nothing,
Who’s she ? A myth from Greece.
Picking up words from dingy lanes,
She weaves a fresh folklore.
You might spot her in the midst of a crowd,
But for sure she’ll ignore.
Don’t disturb her,
Though she is not busy.
Hibernating in the crowd,
She’s meditating.
She is not a native of the city you live,
But she knows this place more than you can feel.

Baleful Cassandra...

Don’t trust her,
The muse called Cassandra,
A demoralizing soul, an eternal predator.
She’s a witch, will enchant your sense,
The poor soul poet will become her pet.
She’ll play to him that she loves…
The day will come and he’ll be downcast.
Save your soul poet!
Save your words!
She is a venomous angel,
A skylark from the fog.

Babbling Cassandra...

Frittering in darkness at temple corner,
She is the princess who foretells future.
Phoebus Apollo loved her once,
Breaching vow she invited his wrath.
Cursed that no one will ever heed,
She is a relic of an ignored heath.
But; she is Cassandra, babbling around,
In a fiery island she was found.
An alternative vision to know your words,
She is not a deity, an ill-omened trollop.

a Parable

2007-05-25T11:24:00.000-07:00

1
I am an innate rebel,
In a war with life;
Fighting the wrong side,
Where oblivion triumphs.
When we come face to face,
Life and me;
Conversation is very little.
But the eyes, when they meet,
(Somewhere) has the desire to be one.
Passionately we fight,
A blood feud you may call;
Merciless cynicism,
Here one has to Fall.

2
I am a born nomad,
On the road of life.
The alleys I often search,
Knowing not what I want.
Mourn over the things I have,
Cry over the love I find,
Unearth those ghostly souls,
That has left me apart.
If ever I could rest…
Those yellow feet,
The lips that have dried,
Whom the sun has kissed.
What would I find?
The wanderer me…
Caught in the mesh
Of a cosmic city.

3
I am a ‘myth’
(he says)…
Delusion of every man.
When I walk along the boulevard,
He calls by my name…
An “urban mythical icon”
He called me once,
But the divinity was not blessed.
Just another named one,
(you can say)…
Where, he looks for tranquility.

2007-05-22T23:48:00.000-07:00

RAPUNZEL........is she the guardian angel.....?.....

2007-05-21T09:45:00.000-07:00

“There were times when he could not read the face he had studied so long, and when this lonely girl was a greater mystery to him than any women of the world..."

on Poetry...

2007-05-20T08:54:00.000-07:00

It is the language, the language I speak,
Sometimes self-arranged they come to me.
Quivers me within, ruffles my mind,
Whispers in the ear in the ruin of time.
I talk to Him, the erratic language,
I Give it a name, call it poem.
The ballad, the cadence, the vowel-chime;
The ode, the lyric, the poesy-rhyme.

He gave me the life, the canticle love,
Made me pure as a little dove.
The trinity I made, with Him and his Song,
Can now be broken never and by none.
I am not a poet, nor is this an Ode,
The lyric I know little, prosaic verse I chose.
Hagiolatry work it is not, but your praise;
I am your new lover extending your range.
My astonishment reaches the sky
How can some expressions be so high!
Are you earthly or divine?
Might be an angel…
Or just, a human mind.

2007-05-19T09:28:00.000-07:00

war poem 2

2007-05-19T09:17:00.000-07:00

Your army loved massacre,
You loved war.
King of my heart!
Lord of the world!
Where are those days,
When you were so strong.

I see you now bleed
Wound of the war,
Pain springs from the oozing scar.
Now so shy…
You fear to surrender;
You give it a name
I call it care.
Arms no strong
Armors no steel…
Rust on the sword
What do they speak?
Have you won...?
Or shattered those hopes;
To change the world
With potent blows.

Some blurred images haunt my mind
Of the days which passed by.
Those were the days of war
All alone,
I said then to my self…
“I am no time or tide,
Which will return no again.
I’ll wait till you come
To color my days yet again.”

Now you cry like a hungry child,
Me a mother, feel your sigh.
Shall I pity or give you love!
(Love! that I longed?)…
This reminds me the days…
When I longed for the sound of silence;
The whispers of quietude.
When I looked through the heart of darkness;
The images of negritude.
Those unsaid resonance, those unseen images,
When surfaced their selves,
Did they then haunt you too?
Those clandestine selves
God knows who they were,
Echoed and wobbled me within.
I could see them move
The bodiless souls
Colored me and made me full.

Color! Do you call it so?
Color of blood
Flush of wound.
What are you know,
The same very powerful?
King of my heart!
Lord of the world!
Your army loved massacre,
You loved war.

war poem 1

2007-05-18T01:48:00.000-07:00

His army love massacre
He loves war,
Yet gifts come from him
And love flow ceaselessly.

(As if) I was in heaven
Every time he touched me
All my senses glowed
With all its magical charm.

But that could not last for long
For he loved war,
Adore meant a respite for him
From a frantic day of war.
What could this poor soul do?
Servant of his feet,
Water dropped from eyes,
Hindering the eyes to meet.

Oh dear! Cried I,
The king of my heart.
Can't thou wait for a moment?
At least till the tear drops dry.
So that my heart can sense
That you were here,
All by me, promising
That you will be back.
At the end of the day
again in my arms.
Can't thou make those false promises?
That you are mine.
And these wars mean nothing to you
In compare to my eyes.

But he was brave enough
Hard to be melt.
Quickly he dressed himself
Hurriedly before the eyes met.
As soon as he left, I realized;
I was just a fool to bind that fiery gale.
I should be proud of him,
For he was the lord;
Lord of his men,
Men who loved massacre.
Who could be the chief of such an army?
But the man who loved war.

e shohor --- tomay dilam

2007-05-10T08:58:00.000-07:00

kobitar adole je likhechi premer naam,
money money tomay dilam.
moner gobhire je probhat-ferir gaan,
suurey suurey tomay dilam.
tomay dilam aaj jiboner sobkichu,
kobitar cchacey dhele suur taal ja kichu.
gaaner bhubone aaj je prem dhoreche taan,
taale taale tomaye dilam.

je shishu hariyeche shoishob e shohorey...
khider jalaye bhikharini kedey morey.
ashar poth dhore oii dekho cheye aachey,
nishpaap chokhgulo achena bhiirer majhey.
krishi-ke bhitti korey kol-karkhana guli ---
sobujer buuk chirey uthchey pathor-baali...
se buukey jhorchey aaj shinthir agun laal....
.................sob ii tomaye dilam.
swadeshe doiber boshe jeebo-taara jetha khoshe,
Madhu hetha robey kigo desho monoh-koknodey?

bongobhumi je kano holona Vietnam...
laaley laaley tomaye dilam.

aaj kobi maara gachey...
ishwar o nei je paashey.
somoyer shrot beye,
keu ki ashbe kaache?
kaane kaane phishphish se ki kichu bolbey?...
"tomar suurey, tomar gaaaney,
tomar probhat-ferir taney.
maatal hoye gyan hariye,
cholechi aaj tomar pothey.
je joyar enecho money,
seii dheuu er kolotaaney,
bhengechey ghor, bolchi aami kotha."

shukh saagorer tothey je dheuu bhengechey bandh,
se saagor tomaye dilam.
kushumer aabdaaley lukono shishur naam,
bhalobeshey tomaye dilam.
kaane kaane boley jaye je haowa tomar naam,
...............sobkichu tomaye dilaam.

biplober bhasha

2007-05-07T00:09:00.000-07:00

moner anek kotha
dhakka dey berobaar jonyo
eto aloron, eto boktobyo
jontronar jaal chire berobar jonyo
chitkaar kore.

kintu aami ek muuk pran
na ache bhasha, na ache gaan,
bhasha thakle kabita ditam
gaan thakle nahoy ditam suur.
kintu jihba nore na
srishti hoy na kono doiibo-bani.
ekta bishri gongani -- taar
modhye hariye jay sob kotha.
hariye jay kotorer gobhir andhakare --

taai aaj haate kolom tulechi;
khujte cholechi nijer bhasha, moner bhasha --
likhe janabar ekta antim procheshta --
ekta shesh loraaii; jodi se aashe --
jodi taake khuje pai -- taar danay bhor diye
bole jaabo; biplober kotha. bolbo
juddho aano. ek emon juddho jekhane
hobe na kono rokto-khoy. sudhu
puratonke chere, notunke korbe joy.

tomra jaara bolte jaano -- bolo, kichu bolo
muuk aami, bodhir noi. shunte paari ---
ke jaane hoyto tomader shobdeii
khuje pete paari amar bhasha.
amay shobdo dao -- dao biplober suur,
tomar shobdey, tomar suurey badhbo
notun gaan. sei gaan anbe notuner hoyar ---
sob aborjona duure fele
ahoban korbe notun aalo-ke.

2007-05-02T00:15:00.000-07:00

Waiting for Love

2007-01-20T23:53:00.001-08:00

In one early morning, in the unsullied air,
I saw it flying with all its color.
Touching all the flowers with its wings
Kissing them on their pollen lips
Taking some seeds of life along with
To give to some other flower,
For nature to show its creation.

I felt its blaze, I smelt its fragrance
The aroma turned my spirit grow.
The Flower was as if a country lass,
Waiting for her lover to land
Who will come and embrace her
And will make life glow.

How could she repel, Those romantic glare of eyes
Which saw none but only her?
How could she keep herself away,
From the avid call of life
Which brought him closer to her?
Her life was filled, when she felt his stroke,
That warmth, that affection, that care,
She was longing for. She danced
With every stroke that his finger created
And found herself to bloom like Nature.

Was she in heaven? She thought for a moment;
What a joy to be with him.
Then she saw what I saw…
(A butterfly) Touching all the flowers with its wings
Kissing them on their pollen lips
Taking some seeds of life along with
To give to some other flower,
For nature to show its creation.

She knew then, this is love…
Akin to the flowers she was also alone till then.
Now she is complete and also the flora
’Cause they got their love, now only to see
What Nature accomplishes
And how She shows her charisma.

METROPOLIS

2007-01-20T23:53:00.000-08:00

People call it city of joy, they call it sprightly
They show all it's splendor but I feel it unsightly.
What a horrible sight of those lanes,
Those dingy streets! Has nothing but filth.
I saw them standing in dark gloomy alleys
Where nothing remains but only obscurity.
Those who stopover, loves them not
But finds them to dump their debris in.
What a fearful sight is that, to see people
Vend themselves to take in others’ waste
To make those people happy
In exchange of a little expense.

No it’s not a city of joy!
It cannot feel their pain,
Nor does it heed their moan
Who resides on the street,
On which We build our mansion,
Knowing not, where these men will live,
We enjoy our lives, yes We, the affluent people;
But how many of us are well-off?
When we count our number,
We are nothing in front of them.
Then how can this be a city of joy,
When most of it’s’ people are in pain?
How can this provide pleasure,
When rest of the lot is in disdain.

It is a city of joy for them who affords,
Can spend their nights in club, can movie
In multiplexes. Yes it is joyful for them, who can,
Can meet the expense of their lavish lives,
But has nothing for those who brought them up.
They are sent to the homes where no dear ones remain with them,
Only few memories of their brood when they were children.

City of joy, city of delight, city of ecstasy,
This city has nothing to do with grief,
Nothing with melancholy. This city is unaware
Of the troubles it bestow to them who cannot afford.
Neither can it provide them with necessary support.