Roving Eyes

There's something to be said
For clear waxed legs
That sweep off your mind
To Rebecca or Venus of marbles in shape
That glitter with the whiteness of  milk.

Lapped with the full-flavoured
Sweetness in thought
Buds now are islands of dream.

Thrust within vortex of splinters and mud
These now are aides to a supplicating mind
That rush me to my hermitage of night.

Clamour from a Clown

I'll make this world worth living for a child
This my pledge to the babe.
                                          - Sukanto Bhattacharya (translation mine)

Soot-lined faces that slither into slime
Are strewn over streets full of moss.

Jasmines and lilies are blackened in mud,
In these, our slush-loving lanes.

So how should one strive,
With broom full of words
To sweep up these piles that'll peak?

Dragged by the nettles in quicksand, we clutch
Straws that'll crumble and vanish in a trice.

Splattered into fragments of unbecoming mess
We struggle with an illusion of roots beyond route
That dashes our hopes for shores within reach
And leaden our eyes that had seen.

Left without GPS of destiny untold
We stutter and watch our farces unfold.

Abinash C. Halder's Sunday Picnic

Laughter and song now spill into the air;
Crowds full of pre-scheduled joy.

Hung within network of brown barren branch
I flutter as a kite without flight.

Welled and walled by preoccupying thoughts,
I still do my time, as solitary in cells
And scribble my dislocated verbs.

Lost in the illusion of unfounded fame,
I shuttle between isolated hubris of self
And promise for a collective of hope.