Friday, November 18, 2011

My Boy Child, My Son



You remind me of myself
When I used to hide my poems in my shelf
When I was a little younger than you
Though in number they were few

I see the same fire in your eyes
As you rainbow your myriad highs
Every time you light a joint
And twist to make your point

Together we laugh in glee
As bullets on the bypass flee
Sitting on car tops
We try to eye the cops

I laugh endlessly at your jokes
As others pass them off as only a hoax
Between talks we drink caffeine
Between walks we stop by a known lane

Together we fly gas balloons in fields
As lovers promise to be mirrors and shields
We cross ridges
And burn bridges

Like my boy child you move
As you try hard to explain a seven and a half groove
Your eyes swollen
And your usual modesty fallen

Like my moon child you write
In my old time words you glide
Thinking poetry is your mistress
On music you give your stress

One day when you are as old as I
You would learn to twist a lie
And to make love to wife and mistress
With not an ounce of lust less

When on a fresh day of Spring
Under a eucalyptus you play me your one-string
Child, you will help me dream of my son
If between years of nicotine I ever manage to have one.

Monday, September 26, 2011

M.a.r.i.a

She cooks by morning
Washes a sink full of dishes by noon
And twists to the Radio by afternoon.

She teaches by evening
Plays the Violin by night
And writes till dawn.

She rolls by morning
Smokes pot by noon
And twists to the Radio by afternoon.

She drinks by evening
Injects love into her blood by night
And knocks at your door at dawn

She says: M.a.r.i.a
You say: W.h.o

One Hundred Years Of Love.


I touched Marquez's Solitude after half a decade
Again.
I figured that my relationships so far
Have had a similarity with the village of Macondo
At the time of Arcadio Buendia
For all of them seem to be so recent
And invariably ephemeral
That most are devoid of names.
And to speak about them
It often becomes necessary for me to
Point.

Saturday, August 27, 2011

Boonyi.

Photography: Rathin Mitra
Moss is growing on your rooftop, Boonyi.
I remember times when your room was my hide out after school hours; you looking over a seven year old me playing with my toy train. Now they report to me that there are cracks in your ceiling. One August night after another water oozes out and wets your bed.
It's been twelve years I have not seen you grin your toothless grin, smile your wrinkled smile.
It's been long, too long I have not seen the sun shine on your silver hair.
Love is growing on your rooftop, Boonyi.

Thursday, June 23, 2011

Bullets, Balloons, Body.

A river on my left
Rail tracks on my right
Yet the aim of a gun is my only sight.

A weapon heavier than me
A lover stronger than thee
And colored balloons under a tree.

An eye settling for the perfect gun-eye injury
A weapon close to a heart which (ironically) has never known fury.

Blue, Green, Red, Yellow
Each color in a row.

My finger on the trigger
And a mind of vigour
Shot four of them dead
Yet not a tear was shed.

On undressing myself the same day
I saw the same colors of May
On my thighs, breasts and arm,
A reflection of his charm.

Joining the Dots

Joining the dots between orators and poets
Poets and intellectuals

A handful of dots between the hashish we smoke
And the last haiku you penned

And even lesser between you and I.

Monday, June 20, 2011

Nothing Can Happen Over Coffee


Boy comes up to Sneh at the backstage.

B: You are such a natural. You were truly awesome on stage.
Sneh: Oh yes, I am sort of great!
B: Could we have coffee sometime soon?
Sneh: That sounds good.
B: It does? Can I get your number?
Sneh: Yes, sure. But before that I need to tell you a fun fact! I love coffee but I hate having sex.
B: *Coughs*
Sneh: God bless you. You still up for coffee?
B: *Still coughing*
Sneh: Seems like one of your organs are troubling you down there. You are not well. You need a bed and coffee both.

Thursday, May 5, 2011

Imagine An iTouch Post


I can not recall a time when I was without you in the past couple of years. You have seen me through awful tutorials, worse end semesters, falling in and out of love, boredom, excitement and all that jazz. For that matter you are the one who taught me to love jazz precariously though you never forgot my old favorites-regular dozes of Dylan, Floyd, Beatles and the like. It will take me a long time to forget all those piled up bus, taxi, auto, car rides with you. On a sweaty Summer day when I needed to wipe off that smudged kohl from my eyes in a bus all I had to do was look into you. And I could always see myself in you. Of course, a lot of love and a bit of physics helped us do that. We have not just seen each other through traffic rush (ambiguity intended) but have saved funny men from drowning in the ocean from a sinking ship. I had my lighter times with you as well when we played everything from cards to darts and bowling to Hangman together. Though the real reason for all my wins in Hangman against you was you yourself. You have been my true word-power-made-easy; always came to my rescue to redeem the dearth in my vocab. But now that you are gone I wonder what I would engage in when I wish to avoid people; wonder who I would share my regular gibberish with; who would remember my favorite Calvin and Hobbes quotes; who would remind me of Birthdays, deadlines, pending work, meetings and beer/coffee dates. By losing you I have lost my longest playlist ranging from trite Bollywood to Indie and Jibonmukhi to Psychedelic. I am grieved beyond words by your sudden death.

p.s: My ipod touch died this evening. I have never been this touchy in twenty years. Pardon the mush. And to clarify: We were just friends. Rest in Peace. Amen.


Sunday, May 1, 2011

Love Minus Zero


And even though we ain't together it is queer how I feel that I am closer to you than I ever could be to anyone else in this world. Hereby I end another day with the appreciation of the wonder that you are. Life itself is worth living because I have a mind which refuses to be youful on an endless roll; to say nothing about the cheap pen I hold between my fingers to write to you.

I exist
Because you do not.

Quietness


There was a time when I used to spend lonely weekends at home, solely without friends and largely without family. I used to be home alone with my legs crossed over a table, leaning on a chair, smoking; occasionally getting up to go to the kitchen in search of some cheese and coffee. At other times walking around in an empty apartment with a long forgotten book of poems in my hand, sometimes reading out loud as if to an expected audience. As noon came, I ate lonely meals trailed by a warm bath with green and blue hand-felted soap. And when I used to dry my hair and scent my body I always felt heavy for by then I was full of you.

Any Color You Like


After being colored for twenty years I have realised that it can never be too late to talk colors.
Red for a walk, a kiss and a rally by the old brick lane
Yellow for the garden that meets me when I look out of your pane.
Green for a small bullet in a box that travelled the world and cried myriad tears
Pink for all the moans you let out when I used to bite your ears
Purple for the letters we wrote to each other and kept in shoeboxes for five years.
Brown for the leaves that touched my lips,
Formed a cloud over my head and rushed out of my room with a point of no return
Orange for the rubber I used to suck in bed and eventually churn.
Blue for the place that taught me to love, a place where I met my dame.
And Black for whiskey in dark rooms and the dearth of an aim.

Tonight I Can Write


Tonight I am Jay Blue.
Tonight I smell of glue.

Tonight for you I am penning clues.
Tonight I shall paint more shoes.

Tonight I am like a fever.
Hence, tonight ourCup is over.

...................................

Tonight is never like before
Tonight is easy come easy go.

Tonight I am a lonely few
Tonight I don’t love you.

Tonight I am an open door
Hence, tonight I am a blessed whore.

.....................................

Tonight I am not sane
Tonight I know pain.

Tonight I want more
Tonight I fail like never before.

Tonight I am your yellow kite
Hence, tonight I can write.

Unvanquished Cold Turkey


And now and then eager lips
Give way to trips;
But then again a composed mind
Tries to bind.

Calcutta In Technicolor


Calcutta, I won’t lie is beautiful. It was drizzling in the afternoon when I sat on the greens of University. The wind troubled the trees and they shed bright yellow flowers on me: a few fell on my head, a few on my lap and a few elsewhere. Later, a walk tricked me to chance upon my heaped set of amours in a span of two years. They are all unforgettable in their own ways. The evening was spent at Barista, Southern Avenue listening to old time favourites from Nirvana while munching on chicken sandwiches and flirting with mango mousse. The lake called me thereafter-the trees, the sidewalks, the poor old women, the not-so-old women, the hijdas, the benches, those kids who ask for money, the boats, the sea-pirate-coffee-seller and his portable radio, memories from fresh February days, memories of bonding over a cheap yellow packet of filter-less cigarettes called me back. Cobain’s voice from Barista’s play list lingered and merged with the whispers of the water. They asked me to Come As I Am. Lime and Cola Slush at Fillers followed. I had the usual Classic company sitting high on a bare sill. Young beggar boys came to say hello. I talked to them. They lingered for a while after which each of the four took turns to do street b-boying for me. The entertainment was surprising and quite coming of age. There was an absolute absence of those carefully chosen Hindi/Bengali songs sung in distinct nasal ways. After having my fill, a bus ride through Golpark, Gariahat and elsewhere tickled the sense of intense longing for the only place I have known inside out in twenty years, not that I was given a choice to discover and love any other. But Calcutta (if any of you have known it the way I do) is so sharp that it cuts you and so deep that it drowns you.

Thursday, February 24, 2011

Anywhere with Anyone for too long


I caught a glimpse of you this morning in a crowd
Heard a voice within me
And I hoped against all odds that it wasn’t too loud.

For a second everything else ebbed away
Then I felt something sway
I realized they were my feet
Our eyes, I didn’t want them to meet.

I walked away
For I was never meant to stay
Anywhere
With anyone
For too long.

All Sex and No Love


University has been like an Academy where I have been whoring with my ugly old Economics since 09. For the past two years I have just been rash, schnell (yes, German) and shallow with a bitch of a subject. Here is to one more year of rough shallow sex with my mistress. And for all those desperate souls who are being J let me tell you that it is not even remotely fun. It is not fun (for me) for I surmise I never liked sex.
It is just bad coffee and I. I am a loner or so I like to believe. Does that make me a writer, Mister Hemingway?