Clouds

Clouds when they rain, after a night’s darkness and a days sail. They remind me of a moist September evening when secret languages of a home coming bird are heard. The September was long and dry, even with clouds. The clouds remind of the earliest wheel of sensation. My senses rustle through the crowded pathway of monotony. The clouds seem to house them. The clouds strive to nurture them, making a difference in opinion. However, the prejudice can not be twisted. They remain like hail to come down in one of the soundless evenings of September.

September - the month of prosperity is lulled to sleep. The clouds have a word or two to tell. They float to narrate. They fly to create what September screams to be her right. Clouds pour down the blue plateful of water that becomes a part of life. Clouds breeds poetry in the heart of lakes. They make the green sand dunes to dance in a song unheard by mortality. And September bags away all glory! Clouds dwell in a moon country uninhabited by humans. Clouds have gone to the land of the lighthouse where they dream in the color of my recitation - called yesterday.

an evening sans me

Heard footsteps up and down
Felt their eyes
With creases of frown
In an evening without
me

Faces that pass
on the way
Smiles that dilute
when they pray
In an evening without
me

Hopes that sleep
On a frail reed
Calls a name
Denied of worldly
fame
In an evening without
me

The Morning Harmony

Days of intermittent monsoon
When the paper boat
is soaked in wishes
remains stranded
Along the trampled edges
Of my street

The paper boat looks at
A lost staircase
where no feet make noises
where no aimless paper floats

With showers again
The journey commences
The wishes must not drip
wishes are cared
they are nurtured
for the cup of conversation
in my long nights

Words

As the languages speak the soul, words deliver the emotions of language. Married to each other for so long, they have not grown out of each other. In the relation of acceptance, the oath still continues to live. If there is an ever after, it is in the bonding of words and its language. The empathy of this dependence has continued for eons and will continue for the eons to come. These identities are an endless repository of emotions and memoirs.

The connotation of words, its letter child martyrs their individuality to bring out trueness. This truth brings out the light of life. Life that dwells in the pages of a hard bound lexicon, to create versatility in the mind of the reasonable beings. The reasonable beings for whom the worth of life is similar to the “diminishing value” of material things. Words gave this prerogative to language to mould them accordingly. Their nuptial bonding gave birth to innumerable children; child in the form of relations, some grotesque and some healthy.

Words can both construct and deconstruct. The process of building and initiating labors psychological and material world. In the abstract world, human emotions crumble, crawl and walk. They crumble in the hope to grow and mature. Words define our efforts surpassing namelessness. Language builds in harmony between two different ideas. Ideas, which create, ripple bringing satiation of the mind.

A mind that flows underneath while, the river flows silently maintaining the current. Although there is no specific yardstick of the optimization level, yet certain plane needs to be established. The sarcastic smile of words, show its dark side when the heart of language tries to speak her emotions. To defy the emotion, in order to exist in a more rational world. A world that denies tender hands of tear drops; and never accepts selflessness of a pair of faltered eyes.

They make fashion statement in the Broadway, posing at different angels to the glossy magazines. Oh words aren’t you tired of limelight? As you flatter your yester years, your eyes visualize the scary possibilities of the future. The future holds your unknown vegetation from the carcass of a present. Present that slipped away stealthily from your hands. Leaving you wounded and bruised inside. I can see you quenching in thirst. I wait to offer you the manna of life which you forsake.

The esteemed words are dry. The deserts can not hide the droplets anymore.

Destination

My cup of “Last Supper”
Have drained out
Let the taught forget
Not healing the future
Unchain the fallacies
Free them to your cosmos
Leave the taught
To be winged
In the skin of blue
To be wounded
To grow with death
To be aware of known
Let the realization
Bring them to life

It was amazing to be alone at times , when mim was away from Calcutta. When Calcutta seemed to be sad to me for the first time in twenty six years. The late comings need not be explained , when sharing was not an obligation and i could reveal what i felt inside.