Silences

As I unlock the door, they peep
from the corners and wait.
Then tiptoe as shadows
and knowing that pills nor potions would help,
curl up in bed
with coffee that is salted with tears.

But I have no laws to expel
cohorts of silence that roam
all through my empty little rooms.

Holidays

Life's all aflutter outside:
busy little feet are rushing along streets
as wheels keep on moving
and engines still bustle,
all towards throbbings of life.

Coffee in hand,
I spectate and chuckle to myself -
the holidays, the holidays are here!

Moment

Evening; around eight.
Screeches of hawkers and wheels.

she slipped off her hood and crossed
As a fawn from a thicket in dark.

The sun shone bright in our eyes.

Truant Eyes

Hazel eyes framed, with bright brown locks

Glow as if pearls in sleep-sullen shells

And matched with the radiance of alabaster skin

Startle my long finished brushstrokes in veins

That rivet me at once on my spot.

My truant eyes curl on stripes of her coat

And turn towards buttons full of mesmerised hope

And latch onto that necklace with despairing claws

As a drowner would cling to his straws.

Glimpses in neurons now weave

Valleys and hills full of bloom.

Farewell, my winters of gloom!

Heartstrings in ecstasy now leap,

With lush, little leaves in their loom.

Zone beyond Words

There should be a zone beyond words -
a space beyond fences of bruised little selves
no trenches of guilt
no papers to settle the scores you'd kept
nor even baggage of problems unsolved.

A zone beyond words
where desire will dance
with rhythms of our hearts
and breathe in an ecstasy of limbs.

A zone beyond words
where lips that would kiss would part for no words
and the script of our eyes would clearly suffice
for a rhapsody of light in our tides.

Yet Again

Between us then throbbed,
An aisle full of blank
With templates of questions all set.

But I who had fumbled in stairs without lights,
Lost all my ladders to the bridge.

Haltered with clauses that never reach a close,
I stumble and puzzle amid punctuation marks
And leave all my wonder on stations I've left
And linger with abdicated grace.

Tottering on ledges full of unwelcome moss,
I re-live my dreams amid harbours of dross.

Bulls

Muscles of granite and shining new coal,
Sternly at peace with columns of trees,
They saunter in silence with steel-seeming horns,
Glistening as sabers of primordial heft,
Sharpened with near-fatal strength.

Water or land, in winter or rain,
Their undaunted bulk will move in its pace,
caring for neither our presence nor gaze.

Battling with overbrimming crowds or its stench,
harried and hassled in smoke, mud or heat,
burdened with evergrowing prices or debt,
I dust up my dress and gazing at the
Unperturbed stance of those beasts,
Ponder the greatness of man.

Prof. Abinash C. Halder's Midmorning Dream

Pioneers hang with garlands of dust
On walls full of cavities and cracks.
Beneath their yellow or moth-eaten eyes
Talks full of DAs or travel plans flutter
And spiral into stories of in-laws or sales
Sprinkled with ever-growing prices of fish
Or moans over spouses and kids.

In between these, with stiffening unease
Students or classes will creep.

The pioneers stare with spiders in eyes
And shiver in the unwelcome breeze.

Transitional Tides

The muddy river laps
Banks full of moss and rods full of rust
That lead to the alleys of stonechips and dung
With shadows of dilapidated walls.

Nursed on the mysteries of enchanting dreams
That float through the weavings of
Time, space and texts
I'm stranded and dulled as abrogated piers
Where spiders and cobwebs now sulk.

Shuttling among waves full of hyacinth and filth
I mend my old hull and haul up my sails
And wait for the flickers from lighthouse of faith
Moored among still-distant shores.

Memory

Memory has its ghosts, full of whispers and sighs.
At times in the concert of first monsoon rain
They deck out all the troops
And fiddle our sense
With footfalls in sepia-coloured lanes.

Groping for words, I've called out their names
Which drowned in the tears unaddressed.

Puzzled with the cryptographic symbols in vain
I search for my keys and linger in the rain.

Theatres of Shame

I am drowned in the cauldron of unwholesome sounds
That explode my cortex and lobes.
Even my breath now is strangled with words
That hammer and blast without ounces of sense
In a circus of unlimited rites.

But I'm the lead actor who's hammed all his lines
And waits for an immediate exit, stage left.

Gazing with the honesty of well-practiced whores,
I who had vaunted my unorthodox claims,
Mime all my acts in theatres of shame
And stifle with sanctified hope.

Deafened and mute, I wait for my cues
And crash amid thunders of cymbals and bells.