Au Revoir

A cold iron hits his back
Sudden.
Thud...it sounds...
A resonant chill down the spine...
He shivers, quivers and falls.
His toes stretching
And fingers clutching the air
For some last hope;
Paralyzed eyes with vision blurring
To haze and then dark
He sleeps,
Lids still open wide
To see some good night wish perhaps.
It never came, for once, then.

Hens made chicken,
Cows go beef,
Pigs run pork and ham,
The man doesn't shriek.
Wonders only, "who I am!!!"

Heart on an anvil,
Mind on fire,
He hammered the soul,
His grave is in the air.

Smile smily smily
Froth down the corners of his lips
Amidst his dreams unreal,
Man! Don't you dare touch him
He's dead so early.

অন্তলীন

আদি অনন্তের মহাবিন্যাসের মাঝে দ্রাব্য কিছু অনুভব যখন মানবিক বন্ধনের মধ্যে লীন হতে চায়, তা তখন বড় অতিমানবিক হয়ে ওঠে।কাঙ্গালের তীব্র হিংস্র ক্ষুধার মত ধাবিত হয় এক অযাচিত তমসার দিকে যা সম্পর্কে কোনো ধারণাই নেই কারো।

প্রসারিত বক্ষযুগলের বামদিকে এক অদ্ভুত জৈবিক যন্ত্র এই হৃৎপিন্ড। তার সিস্টোল-ডায়াস্টোলের ছন্দোবন্ধে রক্তমাধ্যমে মস্তিষ্কে সঞ্চারিত হচ্ছে এক দুর্নিবার রসায়ণ যা থেকে নিঃসৃত হয়ে মানুষ হিসেবে নিজেকে শত বিস্মৃতি আর কল্পনার মধ্যে কোথাও একটা নিঃস্বার্থ মানব-সাগরে দ্রবীভূত করেছি। সেই লীন হয়ে যাওয়া বড় সহজ ছিল না।

তাই আজ আর হঠাৎ করে অদ্রাব্য হিসেবে অধঃক্ষেপ হয়ে পড়ে থাকাটা নিজের কাছেই এক অবিমৃশ্যকারীতা (indiscretion)। 

নিজেকে ক্ষমা করার সাবলীল শক্তির সঞ্চয় আসে মোহমুক্ততা থেকে। সেখানে তঞ্চকতা কোথাও নিজের কাছেই নিজেকে স্থির থাকতে দেয় না। সেই অপার স্থৈর্যের পারংগমতা শুধু নিজের নয়, কোনো মানুষকে ঘিরে প্রতিটি মানুষের জীবনে শান্তি টুকুই নিশ্চিত করে।

তাই সে বড় বেদনার ও লজ্জার, যখন নি:স্বার্থ ভাবে ভালবেসে নি:স্ব কোন মানুষের কাছে তার ভালবাসার মানুষ ক্ষমাভিক্ষা করে চলে।

Rendezvous

Is it the same star
That watches you and me?
What an ecstacy!
Is it the same sudden-eclipsed-moon
That you and me can see?
What an individuality!
Is it the same sky
In which you flew, and me, faltered?
I crashed on the ground, banged, bled, unaltered.
Is there anything more the same
For our soulful rendezvous?
I will love you
Until I can't breathe,
And that's all I can do.

In the Name

"Drink your life to the lees"--
Someone said.
It wasps my withering heart
When betrothed to a nothingness
My calculated incumbecy recluses
From the exuberance of
How the universe runs
to her defeated soul connection.
And I feel like a lonesome estranged
To reach salvation
In the name of love
In the name of she
In the name of me
By the name of Jove...

Sleeping Me

This is another sleepless night like many more. Still different, when the darkness in the whole cosmos makes me feel that no light from the millions of the stars are nothing but damned illusions.

The truth is that even after billions of years the stars in the galaxies are going to lose their energy and light and will swoon to be diminished into dead barren planets.

Who am I here to be or not to be? Does that really matter?

There is no more romantic thing in the universe than life because it really is the strangest thing added to beauty. Death and destruction are there for sure and like the stars they are inevitable. However life is a strange beauty among all the things dying around.

It is better that the best things be transient and not permanent because being permanent makes things taken for granted and Time that only decays, makes them lose their beauty and lusture emphasizing more on the decadence of that apparently permanent thing.

So live short and love more...those who matter to you...and stop trying to make your feelings permanent -- is an illusion.

You know, true feelings never die. They do not ever die like the stars do. Through the transience of life ones true feelings run timeless and that is the only aspect in a human being that can challenge Time, even.

It is not you, but your feelings, if they are true, will ever be with the illumination and lusture of your soul within.

That is true salvation the Creator has devised and the living beings can conceive of.

We, the human beings, are blessed with the virtue that even beyond our death we can make our feelings permanent and make one transient thing last forevermore.

Death and decays are permanent in the sense that they are inevitable. Feelings, which pass through tumultuous ups and downs, appearing sometimes apparently empty when together, are permanent actually, as they, once generated keep on growing, sometimes falsifying us, making us misunderstand the vast glory and the bliss within.

The more we suffer the more we can see and realize the depth of the feelings we do have as the bliss of human bondage. The sufferring makes it stand forth and makes it Messianic to an extent of permanence beyond everything.

The Last Night, Here

The owls shriek and cry

A strange numbness grips my tongue

Dry and crisp like sand it feels.

Once it was sobre, tender and sweet.

When it licks my lips to get me some sleep

It leaves some marks on it

That bleeds all in silence.

The red sleepless eyes filter the white moon

Against the starless black  sky

And curses me

To usher the day

When my bleeding heart would

Spread its disease to the lungs.

My hands would hide the lips

As there would be stains of blood all over,

Froth like.

A thirsty fly would feast on my brown lips

Through which the last breath would even aspire

To be where it dreams to live forevermore.

I would run into silence

I would refuse providence

I would fall

I would crawl

I would creep

I would sleep

I would...what I ought to be.

Entangled Threads

It is past midnight.

With a mild chilling air-conditioning my mind is getting aloft and imagination afloat like I am walking on the water.

As I am more into making my new moustache grow like Hercule Poirot on the TV show making most of my fingers moving on the hairs grown entailing the sides of it, I could feel those coloured threads those had been in my sleep quite for sometime…. Red blue yellow green threads growing from the ends of every single hair on it.

They keep on winding up, loosening down, weave, un-weave, hang, fall, design, shape, noose, cut, and finally entangle in a shape of a huge ball that looks like the moon when a child first given the coloured sketch pens tries to draw the moon using all the colours but black.

This is not just a visionary zeal but a deep thought that has some connected meaning to every single thread that is seen. It is not just an offhand painting that is done to express some abstraction, but it has every colour or thread chosen from the vastest archive of imagination to strike the very exact symbol or metaphor to the entangled mind in the awakened stage. It chooses every object as a symbolic tool of a particular feeling and concentrates into a whole dream in sleep...the very true mirror of our mind.

No stray thing any dream is...every single one comes straight from the bottom of our hearts which we oppress with our minds and logic, awakened.

Let these threads entangle...we only then realize what is of human bondage.

RED RED

Green green

It is you

Whom I have seen

In my dreams

Shadowed you

Come to me

And make me true

White white

Black black

It is yo

A heart attack

In my dreams

You and me

Walk side by side

In ecstasy

Yellow yellow 

Blue blue

Whom I love

Is only you

Wake up to see

Where am I

Entangled in

A a mass of lie

White n black

Black n white

Colour me

Make me bright

I don't know

Who I am

If not yours

All a sham….

কাটাকুটি

কাটছে মাথা
কাটছে বুক
মিষ্টি তুমি
সৃষ্টি সুখ
কাটছে দিন
কাটছে রাত
দুলছে সবই
ক্যায়া বাত
কাটছে গলা
কাটছে হাত
কে বা কার
বাজি মাত
কাটছে টিকিট
কাটছে চুল
হৃদমাঝারে
চক্ষুশূল
কাটছে ছিনি
কাটছে মিনি
আমি তোমায়
বড্ড চিনি
কাটছে বেলা
কাটছে ক্ষণ
মনের কোনে
দিনযাপন
কাটছে মেঘ
কাটছে ভ্রম
স্বর্গরাজ্য
অতিক্রম।

Fly High

It has been a long journey. From ground zero to a heavenly flight. A bird learns to fly. The first time it takes its heart out to stand at the edge of the depth that it wants to dive in, his wings unknown how does the air feel beneath them. When it takes the plunge, the feeling of death forces it to unfurl the wings. It never knew before how does it make one feel with death awaiting. Before the insticts drive it to escape it, a strange feeling grips it all and the bird for the first time feels that it is a bird and there is wind beneath its wings and it can fly like a bird. It can breathe, it can swing, it can twist, it can writhe in extreme friction between its downy and the air passing. Controlling the enthralling slavation would make it suffocate and feel like needles piercing through each of the tiny pores on its skin. It is happy, it can fly.

I have stopped asking where is red...or for whom there is red. When the flames gulp me all day long heading me towards oblong pyres, the yellow flames I can see entailing upwards...yellow...orange...red...black and vanish...like that little round plastic boxette of vermin which was emptied out and there was nothing in it. The line between the real and the unreal get smudged to percipitate into eternity. It surely filled me up with much of conviction and made me stop worshipping all and everything again with the mantras. Throw me up in the air. I am losing my weight, like the bird flying. But I have stopped to set on to the ground anymore. I would rather hit the ground with my wings stretched. The catastrophe would be marked.

No one would have the perception that the skull was broken into pieces, when it hit the ground.

Actually when the ground was hit, its mind was still in the eternity of a vast truth, that someone named unreal, though.

A Reverie

In a half-awakened state I feel my poignant feet come sobre. My whole soul rests on a platform barbed with sharp needles of 22 gauge, injecting in me some warm soup of alcohol. I turn dizzy, if not numb. The sky and the stars with the moon start cracking into pieces. The Wallflowers-lead keep on humming from somewhere in the litter-bin where I have restored myself like a pinkish white pig looking for some memories to be reverted. A crow sitting on my back cleanses me of the lice. a blue litmus paper is dipped in my nose to test the colour, if am still alive.The balls in my eyes shoot out from its sockets so that all the tears flood out for once and all. It makes my skin on my face feel like a dried-up song of innocence. I take a pen and paper to scribble a few lines on me, like a tattoo on my neck. The Egyptians start dancing to the classical beat. How about a million terabyte leeches sucking the bone-marrow in an abductitrillum with a constant valency of insignificant attention deficiency? It feels like a sand dune in a porous heart, a clot in the smoked lungs and a car radiator frozen with a chunk of diesel cake. Ulysses feels to be Phoenix. The fire from which it is reborn is the wooden planks of a cremation where the feet of the dead soul are gutted out grotesquely like a scanty blanket on a man who shivers in the cold and looks for a pint of skin of human affection of ubiquitous playfulness in quest of complete salvation to sleep in the colour of red, no, pink, it better be. Code-pink myself. Dead-pink thyself. Soul-pink -- she ever lives in the heart and mind who never had the natal sublimity and lost itself somewhere in the middle of the earth and the heaven before it had a pulse to beat. In the maze of the ductrillium it lives somewhere like I get lost in the delirium of a billion suns glaring like a single truth of existence of paternity.