Wednesday, August 6, 2008


A gaping silence devours us all.
We throw in words,
Like reluctant spits
That vanish as fast as withered sighs
And leave still larger cliffs beneath.

All that lasts is a swelling void
That lies beyond our count or grasp.


Sui Generis said...

I wonder..yes i r u able to articulate these perplexed sentiments and put an expression on them...You are alreay a master! hats off!!!

Robert said...

i wud lik to ask smthn. is ur poetic self and ur personal self different and separate? your tagline (Emily Dickinson) says so but i dont think so. which is true? does ur personal self affect ur poetic self? or is it jst an imaginary world that changes colors from rebellion to love to despair according to a planned route?

Abin Chakraborty said...

Well, Robert, since your profile remains unavailable, I must answer here again.I would be lying if i say that my personal life does not affect my poetry. but, whatever the origin, once the feelings and ideas are transmuted onto a text, that textual entity is not a personal one. and the changing colours have no pattern - as random as the flux of experience we find ourselves caught in.
And please make your profile available.