Thursday, 23. April 2009, 19:01:52
summer, summer of minds, poem, thoughts
This morning the mornings awoke--
up again with their tangerine suns they’re here.
Suddenly the summer’s in my bones--
a tint of red, a hint of gold
the days of mangoes and punctuated green
the smell of flowers through metal labyrinths
the summer of minds and juice-a-holic tongues.
This morning the poetry returned
for you touched the brim with salt and said
it makes a Turkish swig.Symphony
23 April 'o9
Friday, 3. April 2009, 19:31:12
poem, elegy, windows
A poem of mine, and a personal favorite too, has been murdered -- most cruelly, if I may add-- today by the respected editor of the weekly paper
Holiday.
Here is the poem when it used to be a poem, alive, when it used to be mine:
http://www.online-literature.com/forums/showthread.php?t=33836And here is the mutated corpse, in here:
http://www.weeklyholiday.net/2009/030409/cul.html (look around the middle of the page and you'll find
Through the Windows by Bhaswati Mazumder)
This being my first published poem, I thought I'll save the paper. Instead I had to save the many shreds I tore it to. I saved it nevertheless.
May it rest in peace. Amen.
~ Symphony
Wednesday, 3. September 2008, 01:39:43
verse, true, tune, blank
...
She held the evening in her eyes and sang
in an indifference that stilled the day
and bid the warmth of the sun to stay on.
I listened as if in stirred secrecy,
in content faith that none other can hear
or see this clear dance of keys underneath
her touch, or that of the air around me.
It wasn’t happiness, it wasn’t sad,
letting the vibrations pass through my veins.
The rhythm swayed a while and next lay vague
and sudden as the first monsoon droplet.
The twilight lights melted in such quiet
discourse between my innate souls and songs.
This song she sang in my daily epics.
In gilded books lock all the histories,
dress ours in plastic files for ones looking
for them in search of fleeting truths after
decades of decayed wisdoms… Save this song.
This song’s an art, this art an artifice.
She’s met this song in distant Sitar strings.
I’ve met this dawn after dusks: walked again
in its muslin streaks, in its lily lights.
And so the child in me again has set
the paper boat to sail on running waves,
and looking back, stared at the crystal skin,
and wondered: “Will it ever reach a home?”
Symphony
September 2, 'o8.
Thursday, 1. May 2008, 17:23:40
be, poem
In the measure of a day,
the dire cries of an hour
fade in the next,
always remaining a part
of the next day’s planned survival.
Or life comes in fortuities
--unexpected, ecstatic—
and drags another day
on in its blood and need…
The cries continue.
Life,
in a hundred hungry faces--
black against the ivory skies,
is raw:
Raw in its failure to comprehend
the laws, faiths, philosophies,
justice and its blinded eyes.
These faces merely live and cry
out of stupid simple senses.
But us, we understand more, live less.
And life in war is raw--
fought
for each bread,
for each breath.
White flags are not edible.
In the candlelight a lifted hand
casts a shadow in the wall
--flickering, firm yet—
larger than our hands,
larger than us.
This is our God-- this hand
that craves on, and is
the darkest silhouette
in a world of feeble lights.
Don’t love. Simply be.
- Symphony
Monday, 31. March 2008, 16:47:45
poem, windows, thoughts
The city somehow looks greyer on lazy afternoons.
Concrete stands
facing concrete.
A silent edifice
eyes another
with its hundred eyes: All showing glimpses of life
rarely chanced.
The sudden monologue of a crow breaks through
the slow yellow.
The absence
of motion rings
its presence
throughout the gallery of windows one after another.
And the gods of
miracles and wonder
are past, only this--
geometry put
to careful display, exposed to a lifeless pose—remains.
Poised and planned.
One cannot build.
Will not create.
One can only stare
through one’s window and see more windows there.
- Symphony
March 31, 'o8
Thursday, 20. March 2008, 14:09:42
poem, endless rants
... in a letter to Raisa.
Poetry is failing me.
And yet I can take up the pen
and write words, lines,
and they might even mean something—
like those digitless clocks,
hands pointing at reserved voids,
they’ll tell you the time anyway.
Time is too obvious.
These lines are, too.
With sudden spells of abstractness.
With ecstasies of imperfections.
Forgive my pen. It loves jumbled words so.
Never waits for thoughts to make a line.
And freedom and effortlessness
both are addictive.
The night is perfect too.
Perfect like the simplicity
of a truth. Perfect and true.
Perfect for singing
of wind and water.
Perfect for dancing
like wind and water.
The few free minutes will soon flow by.
This luxury of sitting here writing
will leave another lament.
The moon will soon be
turning into a sun, and
the careless freedom of this pen
won’t be stopping it.
But this page, above all, feels so right…
Even the me staring back at me,
etched in that dark window pane, knows-
the night is another failure,
another wonderful failure,
I can feel the joy of it,
at this very second this hand,
this pen and this paper can feel it,
the cold bones right under my skin
can feel it…
- Symphony
March 20, 'o8
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