Not even that

Not even that… I am
Why should I write poetry?
Now thinking of some bleak longing
The world is bright maybe or is dark
Things tell stories of past or maybe just science
Somewhere sometime someone did it
I am not even that, much too tired
Maybe the sunrises and the yellow streetlights
Are not from another century
The trees are green maybe
And she beautiful
In my dreams I find nothing to tell her
My hands won’t even touch
The streets are streets
And where am I... Where?

Pure

From Meghlapur

In monsoon, the haunting
of these desolate places—green and old:
the vegetative earth pure and cold—
Enforcing the heart to be dormant.
Let the moss grow on the pebbles,
Weed on the stones.
Those long traces of memories and forms
That melt in the mist.
Each little stone and pebble, content
And ready to resign itself
To this unprohibited growth.
Let there be no return from this end:
I give myself to you…
Come weed grow on me too!

FEAR

I

Its not as if i am not going
its not as if i dont want
there is a pale river in between
and once again i shall not swim
will take a boat rather
floating in the comfort of
'arriving somewhere but not here"

and if my hand smell of mud
dont think i had a fall
its just the weather maybe
maybe its nothing at all

Am Gach Ta

Ei am gachtay am dhorena
na dhorena...kokhono dhorena
tai amer dine am gachtar tolay keu jai ni.....
keu jay na.....

ekbar ek chotto chele
eshe daralo am gachtar tole
phisphisiye am gachta jigyes korlo cheletake
"onyo gacher am khub mishti bujhi?"

eto shasos kutheke pay...
je am gache kokono am dhoreni?
hay! bertho ohonkar oshomoye!
am gachta keno bhabe
o chara ar keu jane na
chotto cheletar ki bhal lage....?