Owls praise darkness
moments before dawn;
none does know,
man ignores.
Black is
silent infantry,
plays her spell
on Ignorance
that die at dawns
within eyes
so still
as old voyages!
The owls praise man:
he is ugly void,
pleases his sleep,
sleep possesses him;
dawns are born
to die again
like Ignorance
that vanish in rays...
unanswered!
And the play started with a vicious laugh!
It startled everyone
but we enjoyed a villain's
first playback effort...
The villain was an alibi
for the popcorn thiefs;
the packs emptied
like free coins
and warm corns
softened as suspense
grew unavoidable!
Then entered the protagonist!
Men's weights reduced by kilos
and women's voices
filled the void!
Like a breeze of dreams,
she brought a paradise of thoughts:
Beauty played in everyone's head
like an addicted mistress of vice
but she was innocent
unlike her Beauty!
The plot grew more serious:
murders doubled,
and we could sniff treason
or,
was that a mask
on the truth
that lay weakly beneath?
And who uttered love?
Climax neared,
stopped all movements:
fingers paralyzed in
empty popcorn packs
and eyes pinned to the play,
ears devoted to dialogues
and legs were dead;
only noses breathed!
She appeared again,
and silence turned deadly;
and what was that?
Did she speak about murders?
Did she confess?
On whose behalf?
No...no...wait!
Did she confess her crimes?
Every wish of her dreams
ended up in one's heart's sediments;
not a criminal was she,
she was only her act's slave!
Beauty furnished her disguise
but she was innocent;
nothing was realistic
but some possibilities were!
And the play ended with a vicious laugh
and we now knew
how the protagonist tricked
us with her first perfect effort!
An honest morning!
Lies were subdued perhaps
on the railway tracks,
rails polished silver new;
time repaired old rust:
good is all that time seldom does!
A gust of hot air
slapped my face,
its intensity quartered
by the window rails
but it did not fail!
Not a matured summer it was
yet the winds tried hard
to burn the half-fried portions
of the old man's samosas
waiting to be bartered
for the day's lunch!
The ashes on the slopes
of the unknown hills
stayed unresponsive,
black and grey.
Charred forest bumps
await the first rains.
The ashes are teased,
heated airs making efforts
to burn them again
unaware of scientific postulates!
Warm yawns
on railway windows
were greeted by
the journey winds
that whipped across each
uncovered mouth
like numerous pots in open yards
filled by unexpected rains!
Unlit tunnels were exciting.
The winds got lost
in darkness within them,
and I was allowed to re-arrange
my pant's brownish belt;
dust and sands
dressed me a true traveller:
window's hook so stubborn
like donkey of a miser!
There are stains on my paper-
bluish blood
and unknown fang,
and a barrel
lying like a log
of the laziest woods!
I am accused of murder!
It stole my identity
of loving myself back,
and everyone else:
the loop is interrupted
like a broken neck
yields no blood but
is impossible to repair!
Certain things die!
This one shall live forever
like honeyed mummies-
dead but alive!
I can hide my punctuations
but words?
they are cruel,
they see not how hearts are!
They kill souls
and gods even!
I am accused of murder:
murder of my self
that never was accused
of slavery
but today it is
to minds around!
I am accused of murder,
murder of my truths
that stay captured in
my last poem!
(Fifth and 'final' poem of ART AND POETRY series)
Date of birth: 21 May, 1934
He is in his 81st year!
Clear soup weighted with
boiled vegetables,
perhaps fertilized,
await his attention
on his dinner table,
and he is snoring!
Just a month ago
she was there beside
to cherish his age
with her quaky voice.
He liked her,
he liked her pitch!
She could hardly comb her hair
but she always sliced the carrots
for his soup:
she knew he loved them;
he knew she loved them too!
Diseases are cruel!
They conquered her eventually
but could they seize her love?
Love was alive in every bit
of breath she left behind,
every piece of carrot
that he longed for,
and every bowl of soup
he takes in her memory!
Today, he is in his 81st year,
snoring amidst his poor dinner,
but he shall awake soon
to sip the clear soup
weighted with boiled vegetables,
perhaps fertilized
and surely without carrots!
(Fourth poem of the ART AND POETRY series)
He lived with heavy gloom always
his lungs filled with ashes
of the richest cigars:
a free recluse he was!
How different times may be
but smiles were scarce-
his past weakened his self that
trembled in feverish present!
It was his 37th Holi!
Colours around him
only screamed at his walks:
he never felt alive!
Friends tried,
neighbours joined,
his kin prayed
but he never did smile!
He solved Sudokus
that Holi
on the verandah
with spills of red and green
here and there,
and each number on his riddle
his silent companion!
No emotions:
how was he awake?
Children arrived then,
unidentified little clowns
dressed in small clothes
from a place nearest!
They knew none,
nothing about his gloom
and imported cigars,
just poured on him a bag of colours
in silence, without murmurs.
He was startled and
they were crazily happy,
danced and jumped
in Holi songs that echoed
through the neighbourhood,
radios and recorders!
He stayed silent still!
The smallest of the party
then approached,
drew two lines
across his face
like a smile extended
from his lips!
And he felt his sorrows
wiped at an instant-
specks of earth of birth
on his aged face,
and little gods
of hope in front!
At last, he smiled!
(Third poem of ART AND POETRY SERIES - a nomination-poetry chain event on Facebook, nominated by Suparna Roy Choudhury.)
Destiny is defiant!
A suitcase can be arrogant:
non-living attitude
and uncaring, mute.
Its lock never opens on Mondays,
sometimes nervous Wednesdays even,
when pending bills need to breathe again
before or after cinematic weekends.
Its perfect rectangle stomach stands
disfigured by ages of office romance-
kisses on doors of local trains
or the edges of depreciable furniture!
So unsuitable for an air travel,
how does it qualify even?
Rude it is often!
Young girl's dupattas
get tucked in rough edges
of the almost antique body
and he gets all the bad murmurs
enough to cause him an error
in urgent documents:
how can he possibly forgive?
He wishes to dethrone that box-
bury it in waters
or break it on the rocks
but he wishes it not a second after
for there's a bond of service
between the two:
unsigned may be,
but one that relishes life!
It may not possess a smiling face
but there's an honour
in being framed as
Mr. Sharma's troubling suitcase!
(Second poem of ART AND POETRY SERIES - a nomination-poetry chain event on Facebook, nominated by Suparna Roy Choudhury.)
