Failed Comedy: Chewing Gum

Here I sit where time terminates
My tired legs hanging off the cliff into the other zone
Listening to the noiseless sounds beyond these gates
Still feeling the hard end of time’s long bone
Brooding on rock climbing, climbers and mountains
Chewing the gum over why things are as they are over the mains.

পুরিবনে পোৎলূমসে নুংশিবগি

পোৎয়োমসি অসুম পুরিবনি পুনীংদুনা, নুংশিদুনা
উহৈশিংসে ফংদবদি নত্তে য়ূমগি হৈকোলদুদা
শাত্তবদি নত্তে নাচোমশিংসি ইপাগি লৈকোলদুদা,
অদু পুরক্লিবনি নুংশিদুনা চৎলুবা লমদমশিং
খূদোলজনীংদুনা লেম পানা ৱাৎত্রবা ঐগি নুংশিবশিংদুদা
হেকচরক্লিবনি হৈরাং লৈরাংশিংসে থমোই কয়াদ ঈরাঙ হৌনা
পীবগি অপেনবদু ফাওজনীংদুনা, থারম্লবসু পূম্নমকসে মখোয়না৷

চৎলিবনি পোৎলূমসে পুদুনা ৱারবসু ৱানা
করম্নদি লংথোক্লমগনি অদুক নুংশিনা খুদোলবীরক্লগা নঙনা?
করিদি পুরুনি নুংশি খূদোল পোৎলূমসে নত্ত্রদি?
করম্নদি খূল্লুনি চেগায় চেগুম খুলগি লম্বী মতাইদগি
থাদদুনা নুংশিবসে লম্বীগি ঊফুল মথক্তা?

ও! করিগি অসুক নুংশিরিবনো নঙনা ঐবু?
নুংশিবা য়াদব্র খরা তপ্না, খরা থোৎনা, মতম শাংনা?
তৌফম খঙহন্দ্রে নঙগি নুংশিবনা ঐবু
চৎফমসু খঙহন্দ্রে লম্বীসি নীং তম্না
অসুম নীক্তুনা লৈরে থমোই মরীসে ঐগি!

Bokeh in Lakeshore Evening

The stirs of life slow down to rest
at sunset—they don’t like the dark much.
The streets, closed malls and parks—
they are left to the homelss, dogs, cats,
lost newcomers and nocturnal tourists.

I sit on a shapeless rock growing out of the sand.
Through the sunset. After the sunset.

Dull sounds of oars hitting gunwales—yea,
I saw some lazy boats off the shore in the twilight.
The sound of water lapping against the shore.
A dog barking at a far distance.
Nameless noises of being wriggling in the silence.
A cat teaching its kitten cat tricks
on the white table at my room verandah.
Idiot. Useless things.
There are more important things.

I have brought my eyes back to myself
and keep them about myself only to sense
almost imperceptible ghostly shadows
coming into their curtailed field.
I look at nothing particular—
I just remain capable of seeing.

I sit on the shapeless rock growing out of the sand.
Through the sunset. After the sunset.

The sounds of a familiar language are brought
by the wind, the wave forms twisted into unintelligible shapes,
into a strange language or a non-language.
Just the voices kept intact as humans’.
They must be walking arm in arm in the sand.
In love. In the breeze. The evening soon to pass.
Long tuned to the silence and pressures in the nocturnal air,
you can sense the presence and absence
of movements around.

My mind sits at the center of the quiet
weaving a thought without an idea in it.
Thought in bokehs of ideas.

My photographer friend would say
this is a beautiful scene.

No Respect (by Stevie Smith)

Stevie Smith’s No Respect read by me in my room. Please bear with the noise. Recording done on my phone, I could not control the unwanted sound creeping into the room. Horns. And yes–unedited.

Cold Stone Womb

This black cave, the only space
carved out in the whole rock-solid world.
A black stone womb. Cold.
A single impossible hole. Blinding bright.
Time. Endless. It flows in.
Licking tongues of smoke in a shaft of light
straight as a freight train in full speed
into the jaws of the darkness.
Spiraling. The hooks of an arrow.
Never ending. It flows in. Time flows in
like from an oxygen tank. Keeping me alive.
Giving me time in this black stone womb.
Time stretched thin out to eternity.
To feel every single bite of pain
every single tear in the tissue
in the world where nothing else exists.
Nothing else. Nothing. Just live.
An immortal. A god in torment.

I poetry, because in poetry, they don’t take you seriously

It’s coming up–that heavy feeling
that creeps up the chest,
slithers up the throat
and seeks so forcefully
to force damply out through your eyes,
loudly out through your mouth

I feel like crying.

I wanna go somewhere noisy and rainy
and cry.
I want to rest.
I want to feel sleepy,
sleep at least in fragments
or rest at least in small change
found stuck in cosy pocket corners
or one here another there
in unswept rooms
and in the shade under the bed.

I wanna pour all of me out
somewhere far away
and come back free and empty
to my silence
and rest.

This was not meant to be a poem, if it ever is now. It was like a creature in the wilderness of my mind moving around and practicing wild cartography there. Not restrained by culture that the civilization called poetry usually demands.

It just happened to be this way, the way a lone tree in the middle of an open savannah just grows up untamed by its emptiness. Yes, I broke the run-on sentences into lines, to time them to the beat of the emotion running through them.

Whispers through the Hedge

The breeze smuggles hairy strands of
the whispers of silence through the leaves.
You almost hear a muffled rustle
of the hurried hush beyond the hedge.
But you don’t ever peer through the twigs
out into the haze beyond the green
to see these strangers
for they’re regulars.

Miles and Cosmography

Snaking all along the line
Yuri’s mouth pops out from my receiver
Like a full-blown flower:
The moon is soft.

My brain is taxed in the cave
I can’t make out these paintings:
Arrows and smothering pillows
Hills and vales and rivers.
Do you think they are of hunting?
The arrows fly and the pillows smother.

A cosmography written in secret script
Which should be felt.