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Turn It Up.

Monday, November 30, 2015

Tell Me That You'll Wait For Me

Bourn Vita, Choco Pie, cold coffee, and noodles. Shots fired, because nothing else would do. Bring my books to the balcony: the wind here is nice. Free the cords from the week-old tangle -- it's high time we cleaned this place up a little. The white board is skewed, the nails will need fixing. Father Of The Nation smiles weirdly while elves emulate his fashion sense. An elf sat with me at breakfast today morning. He was a late pagan monstrosity, but I liked him. Rings of fire surround the wooden wheels and the butterflies shed crocodile tears and a dull pain rises from the wicker chairs and toilet seats. Entire families of cats and dogs prowl the lower eyelids of giants. Clocks. Socks. Wallets. Phones. Keys, pins, holes, cracks, nets, bogs, bugs. Locked doors, knocked doors, burnt windows. Lights, cameras, fractions. Hills climbed, races run, sails set. I will miss you. I will miss you. I will miss you.

Saturday, November 28, 2015

Fantasy 11 : Ecosystem


Pockmarked by rain,
Warts of a frog
On browning rainbow,
Floating wisp
Of strangulation,
A waiting net
For innocents --
Useful innocents.
I wish they could fly,
I wish they could eat
Whatever they wanted,
I wish they were not slave
To misplaced pride.

Guiltily, sleep lingers;
Adamant hunger
Seeks attention,
When distraction hops
Into the doorway --
Little ball of fur,
Like the song;
She even makes the face.
I wish she could fly,
I wish she could live
Wherever she wanted,
I wish she wasn't born
To be carried to death.

Sunday, November 22, 2015

Fantasy 10 : Chase


Every morning, smoke settles
Into water,
Into horizons,
Into teeth.
Smoke makes its home
In clouds and domes,
On treetops,
And on golf greens:
Giggling, squirming,
Tickled by ecstasy.

Smoke knows no hurry --
Wisp by wisp it consumes blood;
Swirl by swirl it drinks
Rain on concrete,
Hillside dew,
Tarmac love;

Brick by brick it binds;
Floor by floor it rises;
Cell by cell, it smirks;
Bird by bird,
Star by star,
"I weave you, ray by ray --
The sun is yours?
The sky is mine!
I'm absolute", it laughs.

Friday, November 20, 2015

Fantasy 9 : Acceleration


Rolling down infinite stairs,
Dislodging bodies on the way,
Cleaning the asbestos,

Riding high on pointless waves,
Touching divinity fast and slow,
Matching with the paint,

Turning cogs and springs;
Leaping switch to switch to switch,
Tracing lightning branches,

Tumbling in poison chalk.
Tightrope walk on guitar strings,
Roses built in spider silk.

Falling on the cue --
Big picture, greater scheme of things;
Hollow bottom, safe and sound,


Monday, November 16, 2015


Bring on the idiocy, bring on the unspecified monsters, bring on the demands of the unworthy. Don't mind me, I'm just floating through stardust on my way to someone who's not you, somewhere that's not here, sometime that's not now. My eyes are mint green from taking in sights that I'm supposed to hold precious. My hair is sticky from wallowing in the nauseous depths of self-soothing. I know I said I like edges, but I think I prefer corners.
Someday that's not today, you'll get used to it all: you'll get used to being mistaken for someone else and being showered with gifts meant for that other person; you'll get used to reducing your heart to pulp before even thinking of trying something new; you'll get used to this way of life that I've been leading since I was five.
So bring it on, challenge me, try to convince yourself of the world's goodness by resisting the inevitable truths residing at the end of the battle that you now fight -- one which I have made it out of, with my heart of gold intact and well complemented: by a silver tongue and rosy fingers, and by mint green hair and sticky eyes ... or was it the other way around?

Saturday, November 14, 2015

Because sometimes maatribhasha.

এমন একটা জায়গায় শুয়ে থাকতে ইচ্ছা করে, যেখানে একপাশ ফিরলেই মৃত্যু অনিবার্য। সেখানে পা লম্বা করে আকাশের দিকে তাকিয়ে থাকব, কিনারার খুব কাছে চলে যাব, আবার ফিরে আসব: দারুন লাগবে। মনে হবে -- কিছু একটা করলাম; কি দারুন আমার সহ্যশক্তি; কত বড় লড়াকু মন আমার। বারবার, প্রত্যেকবার মৃত্যুর কোলকে নাকচ করলে, কিছু নতুন করে পাবার বেশ একটা মিথ্যা-মিথ্যা আনন্দ হবে... দারুন লাগবে, বিশ্বাস কর, দারুন লাগবে।

Friday, November 13, 2015

Fantasy 8 : Balance


I am a soldier on winter's edge:
The sniper: chest pocket
Fluttering with memory,
Burning in the heat of my resolve
To be a soldier

On the blizzard ledge
Nostalgia only serves
To slacken my jaws
And embolden clouds
To rain on my camouflage
But the largesse of nature will never be enough --
I am a soldier,

There is blood on my hands:
Their blood, the world's blood --
My lifeblood;
Always a soldier.
Caked blood, dried blood
In my hair (sweat, maybe);
Silent deathly melting snow
In my eyelashes (tears, maybe);

Regiments guard my inward eye,
Promises hold my floodgates fast;
I am a soldier --
May the winter last.

Fantasy 7 : Flame


They use fire
(The dog thinks it's a piece of meat)
To cleanse
Suffering, for the good;
Is just an excuse:
It will burn passion,
Needles will be dumb.
Fire is known for heat and warmth
But all I see is burn, burn --
Burn up the old undeserved.
Passion will return,
Rising from burnt flesh;
Forgive the detachment,
Ignore the detour;
We are young.
Is just an excuse.

Happy Diwali belated.

Tuesday, November 10, 2015

Dat Bangla Doe

ফিরে গাওয়া

গানটার পরের লাইনটা
কিছুতেই মনে পড়ে না।
ভাবতে ভাবতে কেটে যায়
হপ্তা, মাস, বছর;
ভেঙে পড়ে আশপাশের দেয়াল;
শুকিয়ে যায়  সেই গাছগুলো
যেগুলোতে নিজে হাতে জল দিতাম;
ছিঁড়ে যায় জানলার পর্দা
আর যত্ন করে রেখে দেওয়া
কবিতার খাতাটা।

ঝড়ের দিনে ভাঙা জানলা দিয়ে
শিস্ দিয়ে যায় দূরের হাওয়া;
বৃষ্টি শেষে রঙের আকাশ
মনে করায় গানটা থেকে পাওয়া
কোনও  একদিনের সান্তনা;
কিন্তু, মুড়ানো গাছের পাতায়
যতই নতুন গান খুঁজে পাই,
পুরানো গানের শেষ লাইনটা থাকে
আজকের খুশিটার
নাগালের একটু বাইরে।

Monday, November 9, 2015

Fantasy 6 : Willow Song

Willow Song

Broken castle of salt
Crumbling into wounds
In the wet earth,
Creatures of the deep
Leaping into the mist
Diving into the sky,
Somebody keep note;

Rocking on magma,
The peaceful giant sleeps.
The earth will breathe,
The dream will live,
The fortress will turn pink.
Angels will emerge, singing;
Write it down, someone...

Swans will disappear;
In the old marshland
Strange winds will rise
Because they remember:
Eyes from the olive green,
Old narrow escapes;
Record it for posterity.

Sunday, November 8, 2015


Maybe it's just the people with whom we feel infinite: who are lazy unless required, and who it's okay to hurt and be hurt by. Maybe it's because, in peaceful times, our hands smell of their hair.
Maybe it's just thanks left over from last night's sleep slept in sound safety, or the concealed bruises from today's; maybe it's because they laugh and smile when we lose balance and trip, and don't catch us unless we ask: maybe, it's because they gladly allow us to be stronger than we know ourselves to be.
Or maybe, like we've learnt so many times, and convinced ourselves otherwise so many times, the children of that old unkind evil inhuman human tree never fall far away from their roots; and all that we perceive, at dawn or under the grey sky or in the ominous rain or in packed buses and empty rooms and leafy ledges and tethered cables and spinning beasts and Bluetooth shares and white lies, is, maybe, nothing.

Friday, November 6, 2015

The Fantasy series is refusing to return


This pillow is alive
With parasites of all things holy,
With confused ramblings of newborn planets,
And with gentle reminders to never sleep
In an unmade bed.

Its heart made of mustard seeds
Has ran out of nutrition:
Left behind is the hollow, fibrous, springing welcome
To the land of yet another day
And the calls of more foreign beds.

Strands of hair bind dreams to speech
And fingers to furniture.
Warm blooded goals give breath to this pillow
And it stays alive, with the memory
Of when you last made my bed.


Thursday, November 5, 2015

Break continues


There are abundant counterexamples:
Little bodies curl into themselves,
Cornered joints tremble,
Unpleasant surprise
Glues together eyelids:
When unstuck by tears,
They open to reveal
A newly unworthy world.

There's more:
Fingers, gnawed to the bone,
Grow back as weapons of self-destruction;
Mirrors look into children
And smile back as monsters;
Fairy tales are read aloud
To drown the story of mature triumph
Over humanity's last stronghold
Of questions;

Listening, nodding in clarity,
Scratching heads and leaping in epiphany,
Scholars polish their glasses:
They whiten blackboards
And blacken whiteboards;
The proof of love and safety
Remains irrefutable,
Rigorous in flesh and blood.

Wednesday, November 4, 2015

Break from Fantasy series

Out In The Box

This box once had crayons in it,
And assorted wool, Beyblade cards,
Chewed up erasers, spent refills,
Torn-up wrapping paper,
And cans of pill-shaped candy:
The blue ones were mine,
The pink ones were my sister's.

Now, the box has grown up.
It has scissors, stapler, binder clips,
Post-its, erasers, spent refills,
Modelling clay, Ganesha idol,
Rubber balls, and the same candy --
The blue ones are mine;
The pink ones are my brother's.

Monday, November 2, 2015

Natural sequel to Childhood 7

 Best read after Childhood 7 : Indulgence.

Seating, However, Is Provided.

Primates of contention;
Genetics notwithstanding,
We pick up the pieces
Of storms exact in timing.
The sun and sky are witness
Of troubles left untold
By two kids vainly fighting
To grow independent, bold.
I guess it can't be helped:
Intellect notwithstanding,
Prophecies will never die
In frivolous rhyming --

You refused to leave my side
How much ever I cried;
And I ended up hurting you
How much ever I tried.

Messed with the wrong sister. -_-
Title inspired by CKB and Chintu's exploits in PJ land.
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