Beauty.
The splash
of the first autumn rain
disturbing the dust of the street.
The nascent scent.
Of dormant clouds.
Of sleeping winds.
Of older beginnings.
Surprise.
The change of the bright red light,
to blue,
to green,
to yellow.
Against the twilit redness
of the seldom-blue sky
Of the seldom-blue mind.
Awe.
The macabre idol.
Worshipped in the act of killing
all that is cruel,
while her children smile.
While their children laugh.
And theirs.
Freedom.
The soft rhythmic drip of
night into day
and day into night
(amidst the bedlam)
And the orange ice lolly
planning a plunge into the
unstarched pink salwar.
While the consumer giggles
(amidst the bedlam)
at two in the morning.
Love.
Under the nine-tier chandelier,
of the brilliant tent
on the edge of every road.
Every shining stone
of every shining bangle.
Every iris of every third eye
on mud.
Every conch blown.
Every tear dropped.
Every splash on the Ganga.
(This could be my first attempt at writing civil poetry. While the attempt will undoubtedly make Deeptesh and his flames very proud, I might just have ensured my acceptance into LoserLand with this.
And yes, this was written during 'Durga Pujo 2009'.
And yes, because I was happy and giggling like a donkey this Durga Pujo 2009)
The splash
of the first autumn rain
disturbing the dust of the street.
The nascent scent.
Of dormant clouds.
Of sleeping winds.
Of older beginnings.
Surprise.
The change of the bright red light,
to blue,
to green,
to yellow.
Against the twilit redness
of the seldom-blue sky
Of the seldom-blue mind.
Awe.
The macabre idol.
Worshipped in the act of killing
all that is cruel,
while her children smile.
While their children laugh.
And theirs.
Freedom.
The soft rhythmic drip of
night into day
and day into night
(amidst the bedlam)
And the orange ice lolly
planning a plunge into the
unstarched pink salwar.
While the consumer giggles
(amidst the bedlam)
at two in the morning.
Love.
Under the nine-tier chandelier,
of the brilliant tent
on the edge of every road.
Every shining stone
of every shining bangle.
Every iris of every third eye
on mud.
Every conch blown.
Every tear dropped.
Every splash on the Ganga.
(This could be my first attempt at writing civil poetry. While the attempt will undoubtedly make Deeptesh and his flames very proud, I might just have ensured my acceptance into LoserLand with this.
And yes, this was written during 'Durga Pujo 2009'.
And yes, because I was happy and giggling like a donkey this Durga Pujo 2009)
i love ur poetry..
ReplyDeletetalented u..
beautiful...
marry me..
Will bet a lot of money that this CANNOT be your first poem.
ReplyDeleteIt's too good.
Oh my sainted aunt!What the devil do u mean by 'attempt' and 'LoserLand'?Bly me Quince, U r embarrasing 'deepteshinflames'!I did encourage u compose poems.....remember that night when we were chatting n u were floating on d fringes of sleep n I kept pushing u to use that unconsciousness to create images.U blankly told me that poetry is not for u.n a month later u come up with this...aw man!!!!
ReplyDeletewell,I found u have a good sense of imagery....the way u treat nature n divinity here...the use of colours n sound ( one more sense of perception would have been good)is beautiful indeed!Luv the de-haloing of the idol ( though not at all derogatory or blasphemous) by rendering a sarcastic n novel treatment to itwas excellent improvisation!Also luv the way u build on d abstract emotions described in single words at the beginning of each stanza.n the ending is sheer genius n ur emotions have a spillover effect that moves the reader.
keep writing more poems....we all like u!!
PS:Is Amrita stl holding onto the BCL incident?
i am teary-eyed once again. reminds me of good old days. when oh when will those days be bak again??
ReplyDeletedo write poems. your poems will keep me alive.
and one more bites the dust.
ReplyDeleteBlob, Adeetto, DeepteshInFlames, Ishani : Excessively good, you are.
ReplyDeleteSafdar: Oh well, you're a Manc.