কাইব্ব

Sunday, 2nd November 2014, 5:07 pm


আমি একটুখানি
মিলের মাঝে বস্তা ভরা অমিল।
একটু একটা সাদা পাতায়
বাতিক ধরা নীল।

আমার পাগুলো গোল
মনের ভূগোল
সাতরঙা এক ঘুড়ি,
মনের সাথে
ঠোঁট মিলিয়ে
ভুলের পাহাড় গড়ি।

আমি একটু আকাশ
কুয়াশার ঘাস
একটুখানি পাথর,
জটাধারী শিব
সলতে প্রদীপ
তোমার কোলে আদর।

একটু একটু কাটছে জীবন
রাজ ভুলে তায় রানী
একটু আগুন শিখার সাথে
অনেক খানি পানি।

I AM....someday I WILL BE

Tuesday 22nd July 2014

I'm a rockstar inside.
Not the metal breathing, pungent smelling kind,
I'm a rockstar who can spew love
Like I have a magma rind.

I am an artist too.
A painter, a pianist, a dancer,
I perform.

Putting all of me on silver plates
for you to pick off of.

I'm a rebel inside.
A wanton on Go Go heels, dancing for pleasure,
To my ego-crushing power play
Maiming at leisure.

I sit and I think. I wake up to survive.
I perform it's true, but only for my eyes.

Someday I'll be all that, even more than I hope.

Till then,
I'll create, a pretty matrix, of living cells and
Nonsense.

ময়ূরাক্ষী

Thursday 17th July 2014

I have a river.

It's hidden in a pocket in my grey.

Filed carefully in heavy metal boxes.

Right next to the confusing statements about love,

And frothy ocean side sprays,

Of the time we lay on sidewalks and watched

the stars aging.

The river controls me.

Days on end its liquid infects me.

In monsoon it ingests its banks and becomes a monster.

Infested with pinks and purples

Lotuses, conveniently staging the monstrosity as reverence.

My river has a course, all of its own

Forgets it resides solely in my mind.

Heart, love thyself

When you don't like yourself, when you haven't found an anchor within; you tend to dislike everything connected to you.

 

Everything old becomes tedious or scary. New things seem more attractive, new people, new places more comforting.

 

When you start to love yourself, you find that all those tiring old things have new meaning and the many facets of the old you is incredible.

 

Sunday Morning

Sunday 15^th of June 2014

The effect he has on me is incomprehensible. I don’t quite understand the attraction. 

It’s not the eyes; his eyes are expressionless and mute. Even when he speaks clearly, his eyes don’t. They are very disappointing eyes. Or maybe they are windows to his soulless face. This also never changes significantly. Perhaps I am an unworthy impulse to create expression in him.

He likes being powerful and he loves being powerless. He makes me want to shrink to a zero. But he kisses me like a lover he has longed forever for. “Love her like you did 6 years ago”, when all was young, innocent and silent. The universe was just the two of us and not a breath more.

My heart skips a beat when I get a show of interest from him, an extraordinary feeling of helplessness. I hate it and I can’t help it. Usually, I can block these feelings into a mess of ignorance. Regular men; they hurt when I defer to this method. With this one; he’s more likely to be relieved.

He loves being in control. Incredibly in control. He can be very demeaning if he wants to be. Embarrassingly demeaning. He could crush my ego to a powder. It hurts like fucking hell once the rose-colored glasses come off in the morning.

But he kisses like magic. On this particular Sunday we slept like I used to in my dreams, next to a lover who worshiped my being. It feels so much like love in a mistaken haze. This one doesn't. Love me that is. I know he doesn't and he never will.

His kisses are so sweet. Although my inebriated memory falters, are his kisses sweet or mine?

There has to be a sense of abundance within you. Whether it be an abundance of love, an abundance of will or of freedom; no restrictions from family or social restrictions or whatever your chains may be. A sense of abundance is necessary to be one of a kind. This is an exceptional man with an abundance of ego.

An intelligent man with an abundance of ego is a very scary presence. Eidetic memory? I don't know but selective for sure. And a very strong one, remembers things from way back when. Or perhaps he is just incredibly intelligent. Pretending to remember things from way back when. 

Am I a muse, or is he mine? I am scared to a pulp of him.

It's gonna be an ugly game.

I've lost both the pearl ring and the earrings thanks to him.

Apply As Needed

ভালবাসা যদি একটা হরলিক্সের ডিব্বার মধ্যে জমিয়ে রাখা যেত তাহলে ভালই হতো।
যখন ইচ্ছা কিংবা দরকার;
কুলুঙ্গির উপর, মিটসেফের জালির ভিতর থেকে বের করে এনে ব্যবহার করতাম।

টাইগার বামের মতো ঘন গভীর ভালবাসা।
অনেকক্ষণ কৌটা খোলা রাখলে আকুল করা গন্ধটা আস্তে আস্তে উবে যায়।
এয়ারটাইট না হলেও, নানীর বানানো লেবু-গন্ধি আঁচারের মতো যত্নে তুলে রাখা দরকার।
মাঝে মাঝে বের করে, অ্যাপ্লাই এস নিডেড।

একটুখানি হাতে গায়ে লাগিয়ে রাখা যেত,
মুখে মেখে করে ফেলা যেত ভালবাসার কুইক রিফ্রেশিং ফ্যাসিয়াল।
সন্ধ্যা হলেই টিম টিম বাতিটার তেলে একটু ভালবাসা ছোঁয়ালেই বেশ কিছুক্ষণ ঘরে হয়ে থাকতো বিভাময়ী শোভা,
দুঃখিত মনজগত লীলাময়ী তখন।
হৃদয়ে দেয়া যেত জীয়ন-কাঁঠি, ভালবাসার প্রলেপ।
বালিশে মাখিয়ে নিয়ে ঘুমানো যেত আরাম করে।

ভালবাসাটাকে কাঁচের জারে বন্ধি করার বিজ্ঞানটা বের করতেই হবে।
অসংখ্য কাঙ্গাল অধীরে দিন গুনছে।

Stolen Canvas

Wednesday 21st May, 8:40pm

It's a quiet gallery space
Quieter than the usual hubbub that happens at dusk
with young ones arriving in couples,
etching out some free space for two from the City.

The canvas hung in silent correspondence.
A witness to my lack of originality.

Somehow a stranger had stolen
a painting right out of me.

I stood staring,
amazed, confused, perplexed. Dis. traught.
I stared at my insides spread all across
a tightly-bound-linseed-oiled-36 by forty.

It hurt.
I have been painting this one for years.
In my race to ought-self, I couldn't. But
my painting, it broke free.

Broken People

Two broken people.
 Should not be together.

 Though the world may disagree and prefer
 to keep its uglies in one box,
 herd us into safe zones and keep us strangled behind
 white picket fences,
 I'll tell you,
 I'm broken and I need a stone.

 To either throw through glass dungeons or to
 tether me underwater.

 I don't need empathy. Similarity. The perfect match of crazy.
 Two broken people can never make a whole.

 The most they make
 is another broken home.

Bits of poems

Faces.
Empty roads, abandoned
Boardwalks and stairways
Places with no names.
And memories.
Of words that resonate in their lonely caves.

Memoires.
Of quiet footpaths
Unattended flower beds
And your hands
Far away from mine.
A din of sudden surprising, endless silence.

Containing Lost Pain

19th February, 1:15am

Being in love with you
 Is hurting all over my body.

 The daily scratches.
 Swift, sharp, switch marks,
 Tattle tale wounds.
 Raspy throaty noises
 Excuses for blue eyes
 and dark circles

 The Bleeding,
 It's draining.

 I live. Petrified.
 of the implosions within.

 My mind boggling
 As beat as the body.
 Dehydrated.
 From the lack of empathy
 You exhaust me.

 It's the last animal cry.
 I leave you.
 Please. Leave me.