Live like the lilies
White and free
As they define it
They say, feel easy
They say, row the boat steady
Live like the daisies
Feel free and sugary
Try to understand freedom
Like the wind beneath your collarbone
Around your navel
Pour caffeine into your heart
Feel excited and young
Define your own flavors
Ask: Are you self satisfied now?
Is the mighty mind without fear?
Is love overrated?
Is it a good music to dance to?
Or is it your own drawing room
Where visitors are allowed
Only to admire your penthouse/pantyhose
Why is innocence so desired?
Is it like coma?
Is it vanilla without the knowledge of it?
Is it a tasty tearjerker?
Is it boredom induced happiness?
Where you cannot complain?
Happiness is like a tree
That has found a few more sunshine
Than the rest.
Happiness is having known the sunshine
Not always living under it
A complaint is like the song
That ends but lingers
Then, you must begin to paint
And create the illusion
Locked inside your reality.
Betrayal is love
Caught without the architecture
So, ultimately
Remember your lilies with love....
Sunday, May 16, 2010
Monday, June 30, 2008
Kilos
There is no Bengali word for graffiti
Or for Spanish Rice that has been cooked
With Kashmiri Spice!
I can rhyme well
When I cannot find the right words.
Amidst a city, serving alien fish egg kichdi
That my friend had noticed first
I can only remember the highway
That lead to my official materialism
Where I sat - blinking at my tits carved in the cold
Admonishing it to get tame and settle down with the rest
Of the team members...
I must remain a bengali
Talking in a half-baked language with my mates -
Bengali, that I picked up in campus,
Sitting with the bad boys and their good guitars
Good girls with their bad hairs
Bad girls with their good mothers
Good boys who have been forgotten by now.
I have travelled without knowing myself
Sometimes.
I have taken a bath not knowing
How to caress myself.
I have eaten
Knowing I cannot ever be fatfree,
Or a respectful vegetarian.
Every night I watched TV
Knowing I will shit it out in the morning
Not the content, but the hours spent -
In the jumbled dictum of thoughts who know you know they are worms
Eating at your precious madness
That you had whipped up with fantastic pleasure
Of educated shamelessness.
I am not surprised at the fake eternity of things
That you can memorise out of any literary anthology
Eternity, that Joyce had feared so much when a boy artist.
Eternity, that is fatfree and pretty darn long - a size zero
That can exist anywhere without occupying any space
Even inside the air of a padded bra.
I am fond of tea
And Rum
And my thumb
The rest can go to hell without an orgasm.
I think women like to talk sex
Only when they can affect a liberal mind,
Or a desperate urge to feel fatfree.
I have not seen it all -
But I can hold a good bottle of vodka
Infront of my eyes and wink at myself
Just for the kicks.
I write when nobody is looking.
I feel insulted when I read canonical writing.
I repeat the fantasies of ophelia -
For brand effect - I am a fake amusement park
To those who come to desire me
For I can never return a promised ride.
Or for Spanish Rice that has been cooked
With Kashmiri Spice!
I can rhyme well
When I cannot find the right words.
Amidst a city, serving alien fish egg kichdi
That my friend had noticed first
I can only remember the highway
That lead to my official materialism
Where I sat - blinking at my tits carved in the cold
Admonishing it to get tame and settle down with the rest
Of the team members...
I must remain a bengali
Talking in a half-baked language with my mates -
Bengali, that I picked up in campus,
Sitting with the bad boys and their good guitars
Good girls with their bad hairs
Bad girls with their good mothers
Good boys who have been forgotten by now.
I have travelled without knowing myself
Sometimes.
I have taken a bath not knowing
How to caress myself.
I have eaten
Knowing I cannot ever be fatfree,
Or a respectful vegetarian.
Every night I watched TV
Knowing I will shit it out in the morning
Not the content, but the hours spent -
In the jumbled dictum of thoughts who know you know they are worms
Eating at your precious madness
That you had whipped up with fantastic pleasure
Of educated shamelessness.
I am not surprised at the fake eternity of things
That you can memorise out of any literary anthology
Eternity, that Joyce had feared so much when a boy artist.
Eternity, that is fatfree and pretty darn long - a size zero
That can exist anywhere without occupying any space
Even inside the air of a padded bra.
I am fond of tea
And Rum
And my thumb
The rest can go to hell without an orgasm.
I think women like to talk sex
Only when they can affect a liberal mind,
Or a desperate urge to feel fatfree.
I have not seen it all -
But I can hold a good bottle of vodka
Infront of my eyes and wink at myself
Just for the kicks.
I write when nobody is looking.
I feel insulted when I read canonical writing.
I repeat the fantasies of ophelia -
For brand effect - I am a fake amusement park
To those who come to desire me
For I can never return a promised ride.
Yellow Butterflies
Need to make peace with the yellow butterflies
And the navel.
I cannot wait until I can start hurrying
Scurrying
Baffling the center of gravity.
Drinking is a sport
And so is writing... Ain't it?
So why the compromise with signing underneath it all?
Possesive afterglow of pen and paper fuckmaking.
That was a statement for the weakhearted
Who can never decide if they should win at all
After a loudmouthed argument - even when you know you are bullshitting.
Reaching for an end and an apple award
Sweet ecstasy of a french kiss on the television
Memories of last nights football game
Doused in matchboxes set on fire...
Nobody can make sense of a poem
That has no intention for intellectualism
I am free.
And the navel.
I cannot wait until I can start hurrying
Scurrying
Baffling the center of gravity.
Drinking is a sport
And so is writing... Ain't it?
So why the compromise with signing underneath it all?
Possesive afterglow of pen and paper fuckmaking.
That was a statement for the weakhearted
Who can never decide if they should win at all
After a loudmouthed argument - even when you know you are bullshitting.
Reaching for an end and an apple award
Sweet ecstasy of a french kiss on the television
Memories of last nights football game
Doused in matchboxes set on fire...
Nobody can make sense of a poem
That has no intention for intellectualism
I am free.
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
Rapunzel, Rapunzel why are you dead?
Rapunzel leaves home with hair hanging bright from around her throat.
Rapunzel, Rapunzel why are you dead?
She knows she is dead without a fairy tale praising her imprisoned state…
Without the lingering nostalgia of a princely rescue,
Without the savoring unfulfillment of an automated reality,
Arising out of exact measurement of a good cook’s recipe
Who plays chef everywhere…
But Rapunzel must know how to die
She must fall out of the bookish tower of blindfolded wait
Strange elevated beauty that drips from her skin
Which cannot be felt without a mirror…within her blood vessels
Her stomach…when she splits open herself with her hairpin
Her fingers enter her nerves and try to get that beauty out
Nothing. Nothing. She enters her guts. Still no beauty there.
The pain of emptiness. The pain of ugly dripping blood.
She was aghast at her ugliness!
A strange drizzling rain falls from within her dress
Into everywhere, where her hair rests in a bundle on the floor.
She stares at herself inside out…the monotony of a being
Awaiting a common dream that all prisoners of the tower are forced to see…
What delusions of a cramped isolation!
Every arrival of a prince seems the only destination.
What enforced short-sightlessness of Rapunzel
That can make a fairy tale happen!
Delicious failure of a mind’s inability to search for one’s own escape.
Rapunzel laughs out loud.
Her escape waits within herself...
But she must see what enthralls the eyes of the towers
That set her apart from the fascinating ugliness of the masses
Rapunzel must know what beauty keeps her still from
Knowing the beauty that howls of the forest outside
The sodden rain clogged mud of the ground beneath
The moist wind at the top of the tower…
The stunning rage of the sun’s breath down her legs
To soothe the hunger of her hair to become tangled
Impossible to be tamed into a braid.
Yet, Rapunzel, Rapunzel why are you still dead?
Rapunzel must find an answer to the Prince’s sweet delay.
Rescue was inevitable.
From tower to tower she must travel.
Rescue was inevitable.
To be rescued was her fate.
Hark! The prince comes.
The prince calls her to throw down her hair.
Rapunzel must now climb out of the tower
And into the ascertained happiness of the Prince’s hands.
Her fairy tale was coming to an end. Rapunzel laughs again!
The book was left with a few more words? Pages, maybe?
Rapunzel couldn’t let this happen.
With the final toss of her hair, she throws herself out of the window,
Her red hair screaming behind her to rescue her before it is too late
To wrap itself around her throat in a fantastic embrace of togetherness -
Rapunzel escapes before it is too late
Rapunzel becomes Porphyria’s death story.
She crawls out of the old page of my diary
Where prince charming keeps calling her name
From out of that turreted forest
Towers chasing her to employ her in their silence
Rapunzel must keep her feet moving
Even when plunging in her own blood
Even when her hair strangles
All the more, to remind herself of her escape
Before she hits the ground forever…and flies away.
Rapunzel, Rapunzel are you still dead?
No. She has rescued herself out of another fairy tale.
Rapunzel, Rapunzel why are you dead?
She knows she is dead without a fairy tale praising her imprisoned state…
Without the lingering nostalgia of a princely rescue,
Without the savoring unfulfillment of an automated reality,
Arising out of exact measurement of a good cook’s recipe
Who plays chef everywhere…
But Rapunzel must know how to die
She must fall out of the bookish tower of blindfolded wait
Strange elevated beauty that drips from her skin
Which cannot be felt without a mirror…within her blood vessels
Her stomach…when she splits open herself with her hairpin
Her fingers enter her nerves and try to get that beauty out
Nothing. Nothing. She enters her guts. Still no beauty there.
The pain of emptiness. The pain of ugly dripping blood.
She was aghast at her ugliness!
A strange drizzling rain falls from within her dress
Into everywhere, where her hair rests in a bundle on the floor.
She stares at herself inside out…the monotony of a being
Awaiting a common dream that all prisoners of the tower are forced to see…
What delusions of a cramped isolation!
Every arrival of a prince seems the only destination.
What enforced short-sightlessness of Rapunzel
That can make a fairy tale happen!
Delicious failure of a mind’s inability to search for one’s own escape.
Rapunzel laughs out loud.
Her escape waits within herself...
But she must see what enthralls the eyes of the towers
That set her apart from the fascinating ugliness of the masses
Rapunzel must know what beauty keeps her still from
Knowing the beauty that howls of the forest outside
The sodden rain clogged mud of the ground beneath
The moist wind at the top of the tower…
The stunning rage of the sun’s breath down her legs
To soothe the hunger of her hair to become tangled
Impossible to be tamed into a braid.
Yet, Rapunzel, Rapunzel why are you still dead?
Rapunzel must find an answer to the Prince’s sweet delay.
Rescue was inevitable.
From tower to tower she must travel.
Rescue was inevitable.
To be rescued was her fate.
Hark! The prince comes.
The prince calls her to throw down her hair.
Rapunzel must now climb out of the tower
And into the ascertained happiness of the Prince’s hands.
Her fairy tale was coming to an end. Rapunzel laughs again!
The book was left with a few more words? Pages, maybe?
Rapunzel couldn’t let this happen.
With the final toss of her hair, she throws herself out of the window,
Her red hair screaming behind her to rescue her before it is too late
To wrap itself around her throat in a fantastic embrace of togetherness -
Rapunzel escapes before it is too late
Rapunzel becomes Porphyria’s death story.
She crawls out of the old page of my diary
Where prince charming keeps calling her name
From out of that turreted forest
Towers chasing her to employ her in their silence
Rapunzel must keep her feet moving
Even when plunging in her own blood
Even when her hair strangles
All the more, to remind herself of her escape
Before she hits the ground forever…and flies away.
Rapunzel, Rapunzel are you still dead?
No. She has rescued herself out of another fairy tale.
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
Oprah-Flavored Ice-Cream
Who are these people, that come and haunt you
The happy father, the phallic tongue of
Your mother
My Mother
All our children.
Happiness is an Osho temple
Sorry, a boutique island
A real estate agent
A Travel and Living catch phrase
About travel and indulgence
Or royalty
Or a perfect smoked salmon fish
Challenge.
Sadness is nothing more than a bad fit
A bad choice with your hat
Watching the Oscars
Longing for some of the fame.
A bad trip and a job gone awry
Sadness is a mild dream of yester years.
Humble spirits raise you to hear
The true color of life
Between the trawled sea and gashed ozone layer
So much metaphysical speculation
About the stars that lit up our
Domestic chores
Market and bazaar fare
A normal day of unfaithfulness.
Day care centre breeding your kids,
The pet dog accompanying you to the Austria trip
Maids with fallible human strength refuse
Another day of maddening labour
Super-mom sweeps the sky
Replacing the witches of Salem
I stand alone beneath the stars
Inspecting my washed clothes
Cleared dishes
And evaporating enchantment with
A supposedly greater order
Called life.
Cable guy is always the Jim Carrey show
Oprah reminds you of orphans and idiots
Living under the same roofs
Katrina sweeps the Earth,
An ineffectual West Wind.
So much for a good bungle
And the riot victims get their
Fifteen minutes of fame.
Allah, Almighty, Amen.
All is the same and again.
The happy father, the phallic tongue of
Your mother
My Mother
All our children.
Happiness is an Osho temple
Sorry, a boutique island
A real estate agent
A Travel and Living catch phrase
About travel and indulgence
Or royalty
Or a perfect smoked salmon fish
Challenge.
Sadness is nothing more than a bad fit
A bad choice with your hat
Watching the Oscars
Longing for some of the fame.
A bad trip and a job gone awry
Sadness is a mild dream of yester years.
Humble spirits raise you to hear
The true color of life
Between the trawled sea and gashed ozone layer
So much metaphysical speculation
About the stars that lit up our
Domestic chores
Market and bazaar fare
A normal day of unfaithfulness.
Day care centre breeding your kids,
The pet dog accompanying you to the Austria trip
Maids with fallible human strength refuse
Another day of maddening labour
Super-mom sweeps the sky
Replacing the witches of Salem
I stand alone beneath the stars
Inspecting my washed clothes
Cleared dishes
And evaporating enchantment with
A supposedly greater order
Called life.
Cable guy is always the Jim Carrey show
Oprah reminds you of orphans and idiots
Living under the same roofs
Katrina sweeps the Earth,
An ineffectual West Wind.
So much for a good bungle
And the riot victims get their
Fifteen minutes of fame.
Allah, Almighty, Amen.
All is the same and again.
Friday, February 09, 2007
On the bank of Allegory
It was unnecessary.
To have failed once more
I know how to kill a curiosity
And a cat.
My allowance is a maidenhood
Of soliloquy
And arbitrary endings
That nurses poems
Of high school feelings
And hopes
Of nursery softness.
Later today
I am supposed to find
An allegory
To my answer,
Do I or don’t I deserve
Hopelessness
Of the right shade
Grey or a blinding dazzle -
Incompletion.
Debacle.
Abortive correspondence
With prominence.
Fatigued fulsomeness,
Gaunt dreams,
Weary with chase and rotting,
With mass verisimilitude.
Custom made fantasy frolics
Fallible scholarship of a three hour
Canvass.
Bridge courses meandering between
Degree calibre
And unacknowledged help
Of non-improvisations.
On the bank of allegory
And by the edge of pungent satire
I stand precariously
With failure at one hand
And the recognition
Of a handicap in me.
To have failed once more
I know how to kill a curiosity
And a cat.
My allowance is a maidenhood
Of soliloquy
And arbitrary endings
That nurses poems
Of high school feelings
And hopes
Of nursery softness.
Later today
I am supposed to find
An allegory
To my answer,
Do I or don’t I deserve
Hopelessness
Of the right shade
Grey or a blinding dazzle -
Incompletion.
Debacle.
Abortive correspondence
With prominence.
Fatigued fulsomeness,
Gaunt dreams,
Weary with chase and rotting,
With mass verisimilitude.
Custom made fantasy frolics
Fallible scholarship of a three hour
Canvass.
Bridge courses meandering between
Degree calibre
And unacknowledged help
Of non-improvisations.
On the bank of allegory
And by the edge of pungent satire
I stand precariously
With failure at one hand
And the recognition
Of a handicap in me.
Sunday, January 07, 2007
Farther down the road….
There is little beauty in the mind.
It is a warehouse of orphan thoughts,
Run by a hefty matron brewing leathery
One time rotten meals.
One-track mind of a calendar year…
My mind is a dejavu of fixed income
Sincere meanings and added values
I am a warehouse of broken panes
I have been thrown stones at
And compensated with disabled
Bank statements, junkets and happy
Jars of certificate of merits
Made of tree cut papers and your delusions
And my laughter or fatigued farewells
Nothing matters inside your mind
Anybody and flesh, any body
Any any one, any somebody, anything
Any me, and you
Any any any
All all all…
Another me will come along
And make me give up my mind
For it.
And still I will remain
In solitude
And a prisoner of my minds
Helplessness without me…
There is little beauty in the mind.
It is a warehouse of orphan thoughts,
Run by a hefty matron brewing leathery
One time rotten meals.
One-track mind of a calendar year…
My mind is a dejavu of fixed income
Sincere meanings and added values
I am a warehouse of broken panes
I have been thrown stones at
And compensated with disabled
Bank statements, junkets and happy
Jars of certificate of merits
Made of tree cut papers and your delusions
And my laughter or fatigued farewells
Nothing matters inside your mind
Anybody and flesh, any body
Any any one, any somebody, anything
Any me, and you
Any any any
All all all…
Another me will come along
And make me give up my mind
For it.
And still I will remain
In solitude
And a prisoner of my minds
Helplessness without me…
Wednesday, December 20, 2006
Newer Niceties
I am dissatisfied
Being a woman everyday
I am false.
My friends know who is inside me
There is strange warmth
In losing
Outwitting the ardour of impatience
Knowing not why I laugh
At you all so much
Strange theft
Monotonous escape from people’s lives
Marked with knowledgeable
Bubbles
Fears of the neon self
I too am like that!!
I write poems from Robert Frost
I am false.
I am not a prized story
I am only a surface
Curves
Tortuous
Senses
Children
Tears
Madness
Reading Plath.
Nothing makes it special.
To be married before 30
Or god won’t give me
Another chance.
Except for that
Laughter of the bitter blood.
Clotted
Silent and sterile
Stench of the past.
Who wrote this before me?
I am false.
This is a stubborn hell
A feast where I must sell
Gain
Bargain
Chaos
Laughter
Sex.
Tricks of the trade.
Belittled by foolish women
My confused race
My confused men say.
Belittled by foolish men bred by them
And our fathers
I am false
For some who must not know
How much must go into a day
Of gathering sanity
Farces
Vodka and slime
Empty womb
Fun.
Liberty is another name
Of discounted men
Who came your way
And make you a wife
Out of lashed love
And funny eyes
That strays between you
And the sky of hopelessness.
I am dissatisfied
Being a woman everyday
I am false.
My friends know who is inside me
There is strange warmth
In losing
Outwitting the ardour of impatience
Knowing not why I laugh
At you all so much
Strange theft
Monotonous escape from people’s lives
Marked with knowledgeable
Bubbles
Fears of the neon self
I too am like that!!
I write poems from Robert Frost
I am false.
I am not a prized story
I am only a surface
Curves
Tortuous
Senses
Children
Tears
Madness
Reading Plath.
Nothing makes it special.
To be married before 30
Or god won’t give me
Another chance.
Except for that
Laughter of the bitter blood.
Clotted
Silent and sterile
Stench of the past.
Who wrote this before me?
I am false.
This is a stubborn hell
A feast where I must sell
Gain
Bargain
Chaos
Laughter
Sex.
Tricks of the trade.
Belittled by foolish women
My confused race
My confused men say.
Belittled by foolish men bred by them
And our fathers
I am false
For some who must not know
How much must go into a day
Of gathering sanity
Farces
Vodka and slime
Empty womb
Fun.
Liberty is another name
Of discounted men
Who came your way
And make you a wife
Out of lashed love
And funny eyes
That strays between you
And the sky of hopelessness.
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