(I know it's a pain, these hopeless scribbles. Next, I will come back with some of my favourite poems from Mesab Alam Arghya, Raad Ahmad and Shubhro Bandyopadhyay and a few anecdotes:-))
----------------------
Behind the closed door
one finds
a premonition of this door
breached
although a door is free from the usual constraints
a room is not
so is reality
I have decided to cut reality some slack
Just can’t bear this moaning undercurrent
sawing
ceaseless
I would pass through the winter
And winter would pass through me
It’s a deal
Where everybody wins
--
Mr. bean said – All realizations are interpretation of data acquired by your senses. Since, all senses are suspect, realizations attained through them are deemed uncertain, suspect.
--
Eventually it all boils down to comprehension
even if you spell it all
it bothers at spots
marooned and wise
memories trying to decrypt their memories
I have spilled enough to know
no memory is worth courting, hanging out with --
in a backyard sun
and then
there are memories that are
felled futures
a tea-cup
that never went back to China
--
Bracketcity, ignorant as I am it took me 37 years to realize, that you actually need an appropriate language of thought. And now I am dumbstruck by its implications, considering the empty graveyards where language blossoms, its coherent fences, colors, strictures, variable degrees of freedoms….
--
Mr. Bean said – life comes a full circle
I am thinking – A circle is a denominator of my own loneliness
permeating through society and landscape
encompassing but leaving things alone to their own loneliness
--
The veritable fences and their
rogue signifiers
colors lapping colors
sounds chastising sounds
obdurate values hardly recognizable in
lengthy satin suits, funny hats
it’s a fair basically
an all night affair
carriages and their defined horses
rein
car
nation
everything is a necessity down here
even this perverse deployment of inevitability
--
Mr. Bean said-- Go easy on these thoughts
as all they lead to is amassing
fear and paranoia
bracketcity
my innards know – this testimony that
the stone yields to the hammer-
is a conspiracy
the stone yields to its own uncertainty
and the hammer yields to its elemental metaphor
Oh I truly believe everything is alive
including you, me, this poem, the stone,
the hammer
It's just that we don’t own a bulletin board
that floats.
--
Mr. Bean said -- however futile it may be, the humane urge to define anything and everything is imperative, despite the irresolution. This process eventually leads you to accept the futility but not without relevant questions. These questions redefine what you essentially are.
--
trappings are quite common in
this landscape
routinely evaluated
serene
hollow
yet
brimming with life
trapped
and the trapper never asks for
your ID
It's not the destination
but the framework of a sustainable prose.
avid ears
wet ideas
ambivalent
punctuated words that
give shape to a cemetery
lingering in the shadow of
hallowed windows
This city
will enable you to write
these green faces
percolating light through
green eyes
silent green words
leaching down
nourishing
dead plants
--
And the decanter and the decanter's metaphor and its vulnerability and its innerself sloshing at the hand's approach and the hand, its guarded manicure and the featureless hesitation travelling from the hand to the decanter and the sloshing innerself succumbing to the hand's loneliness and its nowheredom and the etymology of the inner sloshing and its despotic truewhereness, mouth’s gullibility and…
Damn it Mr. Bean, It was never my ambition to write a memorable line, I just wanted to write a memorable pause.
Mr. Bean said -- It’s alright to feel cheated as this is the only emotion that truly is existential in principle. By the way, did you know that “morality” is a by-product of the sense of being cheated.
Yet you float your elemental belongingness in unknown water, yet you acquire newer fears, yet you go searching for avoidable traps, yet you learn to love the arena where you have tasted your gore, bile, soliloquy, pride, helplessness, your continuum … time and again. Yet time and yet again…
Mr. Bean said -- Epigenetics is the heritable changes that take place without altering the genetic sequence – your habits/surroundings may switch off/ on genes by just methylating or demethylating them...
and my fears now know-- I thought, so I became...time and again... yet time and yet again...
Oh how my fears inherit their fears...
--
It hurts ! This petulance
Mr. bean repeats – wisdom is the art of unlearning the obvious…
Fucked up, I am so fucked up…
He says: abandon this drama, theatrics
How do I unlearn my nourishments
my soul
That undulates on a fulcrum of
Non & Yon
bugger you and bugger all, Mr. Bean
--
Mr. Bean said-- Ignorance is the strongest force, beware.
Am I merely the interpretation of my own undiscovered coordinates
An imperfection conjoins the values of this sublingual weather
My only regret is that I am forged to remember
Oh I figured out—to forget is to attain freedom in its truest
Let me appreciate a bronze-flower a flesh-flower
and their muted decorum
striving to bury
the immediate sense of necessity
Interpreting me through my follies
Interpreting me through their follies
--
these streets you will walk again
Mr. bean said-- seasons change
so do
street signs
a teardrop on a copper jacket
a teardrop on a copperhead
once everything had a season
now a season has it all
I know for sure
Even if I do not belong
my absence will hunt me out
my absence will hunt me down
--
Mr. bean said-- Ask questions, if you may, but never seek an answer – every answer is a trap.
And then there are illusions
every illusion needs a face
a decapitated body does not exude transparency
It's a slow winter
we talk more about
the nature of stories
appropriate for a winter like this
about coiled springs
emotions
a distant frozen harbor
dead images of dead ships
buoyed up to float
buoyed up to last
we wonder if transparency
is truly a reflection that beams with a certain sense of assurance
I don't have much problem with my transparency then
Its one gorgeous winter
for a springloader
in search of strategic structures
immortal faces
that came out to bask in
paltry sun
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