Warp

INSIDIOUS

there is a stone inside of me

that i cant break; choked by

a ball in my mouth

that i cant swallow 

cant spit out

my anger has flowed to the gutter

along with the vomit of 

the whiskey and undigested kolkata

biryani

my beauty is that of the coward man

contained in his boundaries

defending the indefensible 

the clock ticks one two three 

second by second

the muscles slacken from age

the bones bend 

reminding me of me

the day loosing its scent 

the brightness turning into stuporous amber

till one day when nothing is left

i am face to face  with the stone

i try to cut it out

but its chained to my heart

the clocks tick 

i breathe

nothing happens.

 

Come, tell me how you live.

The moment in the photograph 
Was decision or serendipity? 
The photographer is being photographed 
Exposing our naked vulnerability-

Of never being authentic;never being fake
Ah! memory at the age of perfect counterfeit.
creating auto awesome stories of your taste
The closed circuit cameras that keep asking  

Come ,tell me how you live?

Where you put your dentures as you sleep?

Whom do you miss when you wake up?

Where you vanish when the light recedes?

Jigsaw falling into place

Black swans swimming ,

the dark waters of 

innocence and frailty
As the photographs 

in frozen hardwares

begin to  betray memory.

Books read since january

1.My Uncle Napoleon 3/5 stars- Farce is not a type of comedy that the new generation likes.
2.Season Of Migration to the north -4/5 stars- fighting imperialism with virility
3.White Noise(don delillo)-  Post Modernism and cultural theory apart
"Watching children sleep is the closest I can come to God"
5.Crime and Punishment-5/5 stars-but a return to Christianity after an Existential Crisis is just an option.
6. Introducing Time - A graphic Guide  5/5- Expand your horizon , you aantel.
7.The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle-Sweet Abysmal Confusion..fun 4/5 stars
8.Borges-Collected Fictions-6/5 stars!!!Get ready to be blown away. Savour slowly.
9.Five Little Pigs -Agatha Christie- 5/5 Does what it is supposed to do.
10.The grand Inquisitor-Part of The Brothers Karamazov-6/5 ..Again Blown Away.

Peace mayb

Reading Anton Chekhov's description Russian landscapes ,listening the Lonely Shepherd , thinking about time , realizing that I too am becoming past.

Insomnia

-I dont have the strength to keep writing this.To go on living with this feeling is painful beyond description. Isn't there someone kind enough to strangle me in my sleep?
 From Akutagawa's Spinning Gears.
(you have to read the whole story to get the feel though.Its seems rather mundane without the context.Anyways)

Devil

Innocence is imbecilic

When she is with him

It then craves her deeper depravity

In its arms.

Still innocent

It wants to hear her scream

The devil is in her silence.

Varuo

There is a place so big 

In our heart

That a  glimpse of it 

Strikes fear and awe

Of loosing ourselves and 

our small  individuality 

Oh to realize once again 

that divine loss

that endless fall

Fearing  that we may end up

loving that impossible all

Today On Stage

Time's deluge  merging into the sea of past
Its depth you cannot fathom
Everything you write is just a small torch light
Into the abyss
however
Today on stage are a few chrysanthemums from my balcony
Smiling at the rainy evening
And each gesture is also a goodbye.
Saying never again will it be like this.

Mary and Max

Beauty and all thats not beautiful but still very human...

You should not miss this simple bittersweet documentary of life 

http://m.imdb.com/title/tt0978762/

Edge of love

And how many times have you
thought like this?
That you could not sort

because you did not hide 

and didn't ignore the the other side.

Because you did not hide

private property and all
before  you set sail on the waves -
only guided by love and
the luminescent path of stars-

your was heart for sale then 

your house for the times to invade

Ah! to be blowing in the wind.

The ugliness when they discovered
you hiding your gold ring.

Who knew dreams were so selfish?

Who knew loving would be so hard?

Inside llewyn davis

Coens are my fav directors.True grit was an attempt at something different perhaps but

Inside llewyn davis marks a return to typical coen humour .

Highly recommended.Just dont expect much emo about 1960s New york folk music scene.luckily they dint fall into that trap.

Her

Spike Jonze's Her is perhaps the archetype of what overindulgence in arts and snobby sentimental crap brings.

By the way here is a song I am really liking 

Jesus etc by Wilco

http://youtu.be/59CDQb1wtV8

Tomorrow

Sons resembling their fathers 

Daughters born with grandma's

cheekbones

Oh how you have grown!

Listening to old country tunes

And reading pulp fiction.

As if in silence 

The river took its own decisions

Mellowing down and theorising

new looks at old fights

History is fancy dress nights.

I loose myself thinking 

Our lives are poems

For someone else to write.

Remember the walk you took one early winter morning

November by Ted Hughes

The month of the drowned dog. After long rain the land
Was sodden as the bed of an ancient lake.
Treed with iron and was bird less. In the sunk lane
The ditch – a seep silent all summer –

Made brown foam with a big voice: that, and my boots
On the lanes scrubbed stones, in the gulleyed leaves
Against the hill’s hanging silence;
Mist silvering the droplets on the bare thorns

Slower than the change of daylight.
In a let of the ditch a tramp was bundled asleep.
Face tucked down into beard, drawn in
Under his hair like a hedgehog’s. I took him for dead,

But his stillness separated from the death
From the rotting grass and the ground. The wind chilled,
And a fresh comfort tightened through him,
Each hand stuffed deeper into the other sleeve.

His ankles, bound with sacking and hairy hand,
Rubbed each other, resettling. The wind hardened;
A puff shook a glittering from the thorns,
And again the rains’ dragging grey columns

Smudged the farms. In a moment
The fields were jumping and smoking; the thorns
Quivered, riddled with the glassy verticals.
I stayed on under the welding cold

Watching the tramp’s face glisten and the drops on his coat
Slash and darken. I thought what strong trust
Slept in him- as the trickling furrows slept,
And the thorn roots in their grip on darkness;

And the buried stones taking the weight of winter;
The hill where the hare crouched with clenched teeth.
Rain plastered the land till it was shinning
Like hammered lead, and I ran, and in the rushing wood

Shuttered by a black oak leaned.
The Keeper’s gibbet had owls and hawks
By the neck, weasels, a gang of cats, crows:
Some stiff, weightless, twirled like dry bark bits

In the drilling rain. some still had their shape,
Had their pride with it; hung, chins on chests,
Patient to outwait these worst days that beat
Their crowns bare and dripped from their feet.

Rival Dealer

Cosmic

If a diver from outer somewhere
dives into the atmosphere
10000 years from now
he will find inscribed in the caves
and trenches
his own homelessness and loneliness
so that the story shall begin again
of our paths intertwined
so that all the stories will be of me and you only
and maybe in that way together we will be.

while
the buildings and trees come and disappear
like mushrooms
while
the sky changes colour like the northern lights.



(where i end and you begin by radiohead)

Landscape

The hillock over there 

With dry turf brooding brown ancient

hollow windy 

and asymmetric 

To all patterns and geometry-

a failed trapezoid 

toppled topology 

The memory of our endeavor

Bringing other memories

One forgetful evening 

The grasses seem ghastly 

Under the halogen lights.

Quitters, Inc.

Now that I am trying to quit it seems that nothing comes to an end..the whole attitude of a goodbye is goes missing when you quit. I hope you get me.The alkaloids sort of gagged your sunny hopeful attitude and took you to the safety of  that  interminable unchanging soliloquy heard behind everything.Now without it I feel that there is no way to say goodbye to the conscious now and retreat to that inner world. At least no way in style.

By the way any one trying to quit can consult  Shri Shri Prakash Guru Ghantal Baba Bangali Sealdah Wale .Really helpful.

Bengali Intelligentsia (read aantel)

Too often maxims and talismans handed down to us by great men of past become a straightjacket-used by the complacent bureaucratic order  against freedom loving and thinking individuals.So that the very liberal and democratic(a deconstruction of the binary opposites implied is welcome) spirit of the maxim is reversed.


The same is the case with Bengal.Decades after decades of Tagore , Ray , Vivekananda worship have turned their teachings into cliches and deprived the people of any challenging spirit.Who said that you can't be a better poet than Tagore, or a better filmmaker than Ray?.And why treat the Naxalite movement as if it were the  illegitimate  love child of the whole of Bengal? Could it not have been communist  adventurism? The whole growth of Bengal  is stunted by such a decidedly demented mentality.

Certainly the End of Something or Other, One Would Sort of Have to Think

The years have passed
Taking field notes of  the  hues of the day
The gait of the millipede, the smell  of burnt  hay
And the  occasional measuring of heart beats when she is around.

Thinking that you  are going home
Like  each of the faces on a passing train.
For them
You are  also a passing sight.

Preserving pain as if they were jewellery
In letting go you thought you were wise
But all hope inevitably fall in that precipice
You cannot step into the same river twice.



(The title is the name of an essay by David Foster Wallace )