earthy habitat

1.

i may call it a leaflet

i may call it a handbill

but don’t you notice

a large number of gossips

is natant in the air

do you admit that the fuming heart

that’s glorifying the plate

should be made a must-read

for any seed-bed

the sun tells that to keep-fit

the health of the clouds

the instigation of the perfumed-soap

is required

with that pituitary

some neighing of horses

that is fastened tightly with cork

now see

if you can offer pregnancy

even to the barbie doll

by the by

it should be informed here

if the question of roaming in the woods

is raised

the highly-educated bathroom

feels very helpless

and taking repeated somersaults

in the sunshine

in the rains

the folding umbrella

also have got very much out-of-temper

2.

in the light of the hassac-lantern

the screaming becomes thoroughly interesting

in the about-to-vanish forest-land

the nocturnal shopping hangs vertically

can you be able to get searched

some white-holes under the unfathomable water

then the visiting river should not take tablets

to manage it blood-pressure

now from the window of the town

look at the running away of the

tyre-less motor-cars

and their changing of colours

every now and then

as if after a successful operation

the new ant-hills

are singing and dancing very much

within so much noise

some spoons remain quite indifferent

it is heard that a lawsuit challenging the legal-status

of their relation with the prickle is being proceeded

in an open court

even standing before the court’s dock

no green mango has told the truth

so to do a usg report of the pendulum

that remains static under the dream

has become very much necessary

3.

i pick up flowers from the pages of the calendar

and scatter them on the picture-frame

of my dwelling place

sometimes the spring comes

sometimes the buddhist monastery

along the pitch road of the city

thousand counts of uproars

the mess-building that is situated

on the top of the coconut-tree

has also joined the march-past

and who miss the last train

i offer them glasses of tea

as an anti-war campaigning

the plastic-made afternoons

hoist the flag of nail-polish

as there is no water-bottle

around your neck

the assembly of choosing

one’s bridegroom oneself

has rejected you

4.

some light of the former birth

glitters on the hand-fan

made up of palm-leaves

do the child boats of the pigeon-pea flower

go to them to learn the fountain

all over the room

the cobweb of fundamentalist spiders

the toy-train breaks the water colour

to run towards the oil-colour

and on both sides of its travelling route

there are so many advertisements

of tooth-paste

5.

the krishnachura and the champa

both of them

have the only-one unsheathed afternoon

both of them

have the same-one broken harmonium

how long more the eyes of terracotta

would roam in the sun

the uneven fate-line

is written on the green slate

the sound of the vocal chord is also eloquent

as if it were some bare trees of wood-apple

around the swimming

there are some scattered scrapes of slippers

the colour of whose straps

is blue

and some tales of the faded sky

i return home with the night of

phosphorus

i return with those waves of the

mid-night that have no translation

i lay them in order

6.

for the ripple nearest to the heart

how much cherry-blossoms do you have

when you do swim

to full wings and feathers

the doors and windows of the black timber

do sit

keeping their eyes closed

the metallic rays of light

have to go back

into the blood-circulation of the blue mountain

what do you pray then from the

sea-gulls

is it the voice of the bees

7.

The fairies of chaitra

lie on the un–wrinkled bed

with their backside up

in the hearsay of the air

once the woods of tamarisks

once the hill of paraffin

it appears there is no interruption

to this circus

the toy-telephones

hang from the cloud to cloud

from that carnival

take birth many kanthali-champa

the surgeon comes calmly

to the secret of darning

all localities are totally maddened

by the flow tide of the exudation

observing all those happenings

the half-broken wave

does awake on the sofa-set

8

there are so many pieces of torn paper

into the stone-chips of the broken road

they are of summer

they are of late autumn

beside is the ice-mill

the glow-sign board

attached tightly

the indelible ink

catches the finger of the lemon-grass

the fish-market is also alive and glad

the young minister of state

sends his best wishes

to the handloom-girls

in between

some horn-blowing of the

camels

the labour-strike trembles

the water of dhaleswari-river

has been filled

with the sound of subsistence

9.

the last tram passes away

the boy

who is the owner of every parted-kite

sits lonely on the empty bench of the park

and makes it enlightened

in one pocket

he has few pieces of dry breads

in another

the air to play on bamboo-flute

the night is filled with

mushroom

all the shout within the dialogues

gradually becomes weak

and vanishes

there is no tangle in the

hair

the bier of the hindu-satkar-samiti

runs away

causing a quake in the locality

some needles

small medium and big

are doing their morning-walk

on the thread-line

that is the secret of a phoenix

Lines more lunatic than the sun

Lines more lunatic than the sun – 1
.
making my friendship with the water-pigeon does not mean
that i’ve acknowledged all devotion of the land-lotuses to river
without putting any note of dissent

I’m still plunging my face
into the heart of
black-soil
white
is my thirst in clouds

sometimes I wish to exchange the headlights
of my flesh and blood
with a ocean

and put my palms
together with regards
to say to my all time-cheerful chest-pocket

oh master let the age of my shadows
be not more vivacious
than the flower-bed after marriage

and without the help of any civic key
let the drinking-bowl of an wish-baul
walks as it wishes
along my lips

Lines more lunatic than the sun – 2

I offer so much love to the orioles

after then
some defeats on the upper-level of the pea-leaves
have gathered somehow

then, the juvenescent white esculent fruit
that has a conch-shell shape
or the restless thunder
no one agrees to take the onus of maintaining my
feeding
and clothing
and sheltering

on some compulsion
I run to a grammar
produced by the water

it is her indulgence with which
I install forest in the mausoleum of the plural noun
install blending of sounds and compounding of words
and on reaching to the realisation of liberalism
I install a notun-bouthan also

I get pain very much
on observing the memory of the bicycle

to the laugher and weeping reserved for me only
why… without taking my permission… she sends
such an apprentice
in the hands of whose a-c machine
there is no fire-work
at all

Lines more lunatic than the sun – 3

just in the middle of the bad luck
I cultivate
some more boutique print

in the accident-prone foot of the kadam-tree
I deploy
a special correspondent of my own

putting my affidavit to the silk-worm
with myself
I’m going to start
bihu-dance
in the juhu-beach
Solo

comes to mind that date…i don’t remember..
when together in the bus-stand
you and me
we were both speechless

to your that silence
was offered my bread and butter

then in your those wide eyelids
for a moment
wasn’t put the shadow of any handkerchief
made of clouds

after then the epic of the mice started

like the creeper and the tree
the servant with the maid-servant
in that enlarging fire
the cloud was burnt
the water too

from the tooth-ache there took birth
the nail-polish
the hawai chappal
my FM


Lines more lunatic than the sun – 4

your body
that’s fond of tv-soap

with its un-worldly moonlight and worldly tricks and posterings
as if it wants to plough
a thin winter that is attached firmly with a mermaid

along with the-path said-by-her
the white leaves are being flown away
on the-path written-by-her
the black-flags are making crowd

in source-root of both of them lies only one opening-song
at the end of both of them lies only one flower-festival
pre-occupied by some other thoughts

it’s least to say
it has nine colours
it has ninety coloured-girls

if its feast be got open
the vermillion-mark of dusts
the garland of wading-birds
the squirrels

in the bed of bananas
in between two stations
when the local train stops
from the logic-card of the pumpkin
it’s produced
always-new such dialects
of the bath- in-the-ganga

Lines more lunatic than the sun – 5

far from the centre-stage
production is going on
of many street-dramas
on handling the characters in them
is developing always
that sun-shine of horses
think sincerely in favour of it
how much change can be introduced
in the weight-structure of the night
and the night-queen
think sincerely how long more
the subsidy paid to the inter-caste alphabet
of the rhizomes of the paddy plants
would be continued
to make high the fertility of the school-buses
if the pages of the daily news-papers
be gone through well
it is understood
where there is folk-dances
there is hailstorm
the potato-growers are undone
observing all those
the coloured eyes of the water-cat
become much tearful
come, oh shy grandfather
gathering on this platform of pot-herb-creeper
we now
in search of some unspoilt palmyra-pulp of the kernel
we start digging vehemently
the pores of the skin of our body


Lines more lunatic than the sun – 6

the sleep is sleepless

in this hot-sea-shore
that’s my only guardian
in the form of clouds

for separating myself from the palms of my hands
that is my act of ferrying boat eaten by ants

Not for a golden deer my darling for a golden iguana
I am now totally dedicated to my pocket-comb

today’s income is very little
yet may you note
with the match-stick
i can rightly be able to reach that rehearsal-room

if you have taken decision
to make the rain-water your capital
then I have to display more simplicity on my face

the fight would never be finished

Lines more lunatic than the sun – 7

playing on the raw-coal
the under-clothes of the airhostesses
continue to sing a song

even-then the germination of the almonds
can never become the sugar-candy
made of palmyra

may be they don’t want so

until and unless any night-guard comes
and deposits the RBCs of the jack-fruit-leaves
within a wrinkle-free hand-glove

you do absorb all colours
from the soil of the earthworms
and thus unfold your open hair
along the air of this cloudy day
then none but the gughni-sellers
will get back their names and titles

there is from the sky of the timber of hog-plum
it has rained even last night
the streets are wet
the trees are wet
there is splashing mud in the low lands

those all full-of-incidents
if you wish
you can send them
to the introduction of a proposal against war

i’ve never heard that
to take the responsibility
of the starving south-east
the rain has put down its crown


Lines more lunatic than the sun – 8

all on a sudden
one day again
i face the isabgool

the own fountain of vraj-kishore
may be, wants to fly away in such a manner
to another afternoon

my tiffin-expenses cann’t discover that valley
till now
from where
it is said
all night-gowns begins

then i’m sitting
with my hands and legs spread
in the sun-light
filled with
the sound of chopping of cabbages

on the flowers of the sun-plant
that are in-between the wife and her mother-in-law
i exercise my intelligence very much

if the question of my security is raised
it is only a ‘for-God’s-sake’-like adjuration

the knot of a white handkerchief is so much heavy
i don’t know earlier
my knowledge of using prosody
getting amalgamated calmly
with the stamen used by the sleep

Lines more lunatic than the sun – 9

for her
who looks most beautiful in red orna
i’m carrying the best wishes of those lilies
blooming on the iron-grill

When the blue-lotus is becoming more intense
within the rain pipe
i’ve lost the gate-pass of my earthly-birth

this world of secret inclinations and intentions
written in the letters of wild-jasmine

here to take a step
there is the ring-worms
to extend the hand
there is hydrophobia

so many nicknames for the boat-sinking
so many infiltrations

here the information from akrur catered much more
on the skin of masala-muri
than on the misti-dai
much more dance of the algebra

when by the hands
stolen from the sheep-herd
i’m sweeping the fallen leaves
it repeatedly comes to my mind today
that many market-price does not see me alive
even-then each powder-puff is scripting me
on the soap-water

Lines more lunatic than the sun – 10

then
owing to the pollen-grains
i can’t become a good goal-keeper

even a morning
overcasted with nimbus
does not walk
catching the finger of the clap of the thunder
courtesy the james-clip
in her malkosh is playing on
the caw
the news-paper hawker
the maid-servant
though with some different bonding
with some different lighting

so much lachrymose on the cover of the opposite-water
as if at the gate of the candle-manufacturing-plant
some one by the capsicum get attached
the well-being information of the bison that breaks easily
and after stealing some over-boundaries
from the store of the un-timely spring
mingles with the pages of physics
a ratnti-kali-puja
that’ve got titillations from the nail-polish

through the act of walking
i’m
as i can guess
going to become drunk-mad

Moments for Blooming

1
the goose is putting signature
on the plume detaching from its tail

the queue is overflowed with crowd

groping in the memory of the gathering people
so many safety pins and cello-tapes
are found

on the shoulders of some wayfarers
there is the stammering cold

2.
the body-language of the moon
is being so changed

the enthusiastic may test

blood came down
when the tap is on

and sweat

now birds from siberia
are flowing in through the disc antenna

the dravidian air is ever changing

now none can get ruined
following all the grammar

3.
the sole hunger of the winter
is being noted down in the note book
covered with human-skin

the clouds of the summer and the rainy season
are salivating

the garrulous spiders are detaching the shells
of the dead deer and putting the gardens in the iron-chest

throwing dry leaves to shoo away the coke
oh, the sleeveless palms
are all the new girl-friends ok

4.
putting on the rain-coat to save the skin
or it’s an armour
is your body safe
fireworks are twinkling
piercing
the fire-brigade has gone to a joyful journey with the clouds
admit the charisma of the bathroom
you the adult buffalo
don’t forget to tell
the experienced cormorants have flown in from the marshland

5.
diving in search of kisses
I saw all are stings
even the wicker tray with the articles of ceremonial reception
can’t escape bite
would you be clean
oh engrossed abir
so many flakes of snow on the branches of the guava tree
the festival is in your teeth also
tame your blood
don’t submerge the river into the waves
and there is the sky
beg a rail


6.
I pierced the clouds with my fore-finger
And the blood-stain touches my body
the wind which makes the doors and windows
open to public view I can’t stare at its eyes
I push the storm towards the yellow-leaves

7.
sometimes the river calls
as if she will fly like the winged horse
if she be let loosed
where does she keep the sadness of her placenta
there is no flower-vase
the glass is good enough
though the lover glass has broken with the first kiss
the grass with aromatic roots trembles in the breeze from the candid wings
the orna flies tearing the caterpillar
would you let your salted water be wasted

8.
beside the comb there is hair
Is it soft green or the alkaline
How much relevant is that information
Rowing through which water the endemic comes
The afternoon-cloud giggled took permission and went home
bringing an end to today’s play
the unwashed plates after eating are placed on the basin
the night-cigarette goes burning in the mouth of air
on the coughs and expectoration floats the lost mast

9.
the sands are shy to the extreme
They don’t loot anything
The bricks have much intimacy with the wild creepers
All the komonduls and lances turned backward
Now you may easily spread your wet cloth in the air
One roof would have dialogues with another in the lost afternoon
One window have eye-sharing with the another

10.
there is the laugh
100% natural
Beauty is written on the eyebrows
that is also a game
new cloths at the time of puja
that is also an addiction
a hidden bunglow
under the tongue
no information of death

High-yielding verses


Volga - 1

there might have been some provocation
on the part of the rat’s bible

it is not known when and how
every piece of sleep that spatters
from the oesophagus of the dip-swimming
has stick to the c-sharp
of the newly-purchased tooth-brush

the air within the wish-bicycle
figures nothing less

how much is it necessary now
to murder the blue-hue with the study
that can be saved by the depression of the Ganges-basin
to develop the snap-shot of the garland-exchange with the
antiseptic cream

would you think it for some moments
my lord
the lord of the market

before sending any secret e-mail
to the cyclone
residing in the room
behind the stair-case
let the Volga be read once more
with all its clothes
and hair-styles


Volga - 2

the winter of the water-canon
oxidised by the fireflies
wants to touch every bamboo-flute
of this soil, it seems

as if it plays
in the body of every cauliflower
the total memorising-skill
of the blue and yellow pyramid

and if some lines of changes
in the planet be added
the birth-day of the bolster
that goes to the sea
may learn with a lesser effort
the pollen-efficiency of the nail-marked walls

how much should I scold the squirrels
who don’t want to swim
in the still-water of the black-board


Volga – 3

the green-circuit of the fried-almonds
that was submerged
in the open-hair of the afternoon
the whole-night workshop
has taught
the thumb-impression is to be put
how far below it

if the autobiographies are planted
into the drawer of nature
the solubility of the river-reed
gets it done too late at night

all the plus-signs around
from their etiquettes
come down

so many foot-notes
caused by the season-changes

so before planting life
to the address of the wall-lamps
it seems the cotton-flower
written by the oceans
began yawning


Volga – 4

to the homoeopathy phial
standing on the traffic-island
why it appears
within her womb
the number of germinated nights
stolen without a kiss
is too little

is then it true
if all the chanting of Harinam
can’t be withdrawn from the alcohol
the body-odour of the running tamarisk-shrub
will enter into the circuit-house

and that devouring of the parchment
brings to the feelings of the non-veg ant-hills
the let’s-go-cure
gathering in the sauce-island


Volga - 5

coming to this ironed canal-side
every auto-rickshaw
wants to know and let other know
the mystery
behind the rice-rain
from the cirrus

the shame in the eyes of the seal containing signs
supplies the whole-sale dealership
of the civil disobedience movement
to the locality

the role of the hammer also
wakes up early in the morning
to put under its own tongue
an antacid

is it possible that the spits
used in the observatory
be made a little more fast-moving


Manuscript of the basement of a well

the biography of the pond-heron will be scripted
even-then the productivity of the merry-go-round
wouldn’t be uttered for a moment
no sir, such has never been expected

in the liquefied banana-blossoms
too many hot breads resulted from the season-change
continues to bat vehemently
and climbs to the peak of heart-throbbing runs

they in a group will go to the
aqua anetha of the mole hill
to organise a folk-song

to understand this
no arbitration of the cactus is required

notwithstanding
it is heard that the thread was pulled
by the violin of the wife of the moon-god
from behind the screen

here in the eye-front
is the basement of the morning-well

on its one page lies the faulty crow-caws
and on another some sun-shines
swinging on the hanger
after some pages in recurring …the chicken-pox … the boot-polish …

within the two covers of the dance-drama
also comes the creepers and herbs
grown around the melting point
of the arm-chair
whose legs are broken

if each pore on the skin of the river-lily
becomes so much known
then in the background of this low land

let us have one game more



A poem regarding evil-company

thus do learn to tolerate the blow of wings
of the most inflammable flesh

after the successful sacrifice of the student-hostel
jumping into the peacock-foams
how dangerously is changing the total travel-route of the nail-polish

in the high tide of the coconut-kernel
that conquers the world
today the water-pigeon gets pain

only by the flute made of palm-leaf
can’t be written the pleasure-trip in boat
of the injured-knee night-queen that is deposited heavily
on the collar of the village-moonlight

even-then the gramophone would be playing on
even-then the courageous pheasant would proceed further
to throw towards the squirrel a dinner-sleep

then all the daughters in disguise of birds certainly
may come out from within the salted mosquito-net
burning open-ground in their eyes

even after
the small boats of the fig leaves
would slip from the chorus song
of the roses

then they are to be pulled forward to the river-bed
of the late afternoon

to make them understand again

that such Xerox-centre which can ignore its metallic-birth
does not grow even now on either side of this muddy road

so look at to see how the epenthesis
of the screwpine-leaf withdraws her beak from the old dome

and pours
all new mathematics

into the compact-disc stitched with the back of the sea-tortoise

if that’s not real
how in the left and right
such evil-company of the oxygen would creep

if the next part of this commentary
resumes from the umbilicus cavity of the x-mass
would the blood-sugar of the water-plankton be rising continuously

look there again
the feather of colour that is in her adolescence
touches the cold magnet of her gamut
to disperse the cherry orchards

now if the doors of this brown triangle be got open

you can see on the screen one by one
the projection of the apex-points of the red-palash

and in the night-texture of the kathakali-kathak
they are supplying continuously
small sun-shines in poly-packs



The bowstring that passes through the centre

is the tendency of the reddish sunshine
to become drenched some more

let us hear
what the milky-way seamed by pins
says

and it’s you
how much can you be able to read
the venation of the Barringtonia acutangula

can you touch the season of making apples
in the aquarium

the empty bottles without any co-ordinate
that shoulder with endless grief
the hands of the wall-clocks

in a sudden depression
they’re also making crowd
at the beauty parlour

you have promised someday
to present a flower-vase to display some drops of blood
in the circled face

do you remember it

you haven’t floated that turnip
till now

here the month of trumpet-flower
covers everything
with reedy grass

with the festival of colours of the white horses
the new leaves of bananas become associated

the total dipavali rows
along the evening-balcony

taking it as daylight
will any bird fly towards it

then send a walkman
for the bamboo plants

you must go today
in search of the source
of the hand-woven lamp-post

from the pitcher-worship to the kantha-stitch
it is a very large
twelve-horned deer

the mango-marrow
demands more land
demands more kingfisher

the breath of the Ravenala
touches the chicks of the black-pepper

in every evening
the flood that tears the button
touches the bowstring

that passes through the centre of magnolia



Soap-song

if the sinking-of-boat …ice-cream by name
be deducted from the swept-off-in-flood … by name roll no 31
then would the wings of the comics
cease to exist

what says the uninterrupted sound of water-falling
from the stomach of the moon

what writes the pus and blood
what writes the fuming-hot rice

the creepers and the herbs grow continuously
in the insomniac bath-tub

the sounds of the horse-hoof floated by the river
used to change the velocity of its clothes
both in the morning and evening

the birds from the cornice go to school
by dip-swimming

it may come one day when the fishes
become very angry and in the tale of the sweet-meat
the potter will destroy the jointly-built bee-hive

then all hurricane would be habituated to dinner
sans saliva

then there would be no such morning-walk
in the body of the trees
from which such a bore could be found out
through which an elderly saral may fly
into the blue translation of a squirrel

the magnetic field of the orange-pulp
and the productivity of the open window
reside in the same locality

if their frequency be touched

then the the antenna of the mermaids
speared with sleeping-oil
may be injured

by burnings their eyes
the crow-birds knocks at
in the soap-foams
produced by the afternoon

the pond with a jumping deer
wants to make bite

it is not known by this way
when a white hyphen
sticks to the palate of the shirt

now put off all the whispers
and let it be talked on the will-paper of the bees

why the pages from the honourable ash-trays
be excluded

those bunch of waters
that come out from the churning of the anises
and the jumps born of their semen
also make friends with the group-photos

now let this other night sends its best wishes
to the future candles
through a cell-phone


Line of rains

1
from the utterance of the clouds I can understand now
there is no particular season which may be called as rainy

in any time those weak-days may be drenched
the water-mark of the candles may exist after the sun rises

now whether it was a wrong way or a wrong going
that debate is still on

2
you put the age over my shoulders
but I can’t roar so much why
my anger is then no more a child

if the yellow colour means the disappearance of whiteness
from the locked-teeth then the bird will fly
with its beaks getting experienced

when all one around here
wants to be the seed of the intellectual grass
how much relevant is such a mute lamp-post

3
the morning of the clouds awakes
touching the line of rains
another giant night keeps waiting
in the darkness of the other
that delta rises in the secret water of the river
where with the songs of the birds
the hot coffee acquires the lips
the hands are as if like very known creepers
the tree is in search for a brown body
to which if a marriage could be organised
the thought of the disturbed walls also disappears

4
I am sitting here in this shadow-hell
unfurling a paper on the strong storm
before night comes keep your face up
from the silky letter
and let me see you
I would not go to that fabrics again
of late I have turned into stone by heavy rain-fall
now heat is required in equal measure
for which I shall have to become loser in every game
afterwards with my dusts
this paper will fly away
you recreate me with a new fever


[b]The precitipation relating to slaughter-land[/b]

the season-change of the vagrant pole-star easily picks up a sip
from the list of ducks of the night-watchers

standing on the bye-lane of the horse-race … by the weight of the confession made
by the spelling-mistakes of a moonlit night to the lotus-leaves … the amputated
tongues of the night-bulbs gradually rolls down to the banyan-pods of the side-characters

the sharp archer of the star-apple moves away some furlongs from the usual
word-stairs and swallowed a whole grammar with fumes by spoon

thus with the number of velocity-poems that the punjabi with boutique prints
can produce… or will produce … gluttonous flower-vase of the magic-painter
can make cool the slaughter-ground … spread to the horizons of the krishnachura
that is deviated from its own track


High-yielding verses

when this endless anchal of dhanekhali sari
continues to make dip-swimming
in the bottomless water of the paddy

and if into the colour of her fore-finger
enters repeatedly some whole-noons of the chot-boshekh

and from the more depth of the ceiling-fan
comes out the ordour of the open-hair of the village-orange

then with that lac-saliva wouldn’t an easy pandel
be constructed on the roof

its water will be made begin as well
that white cloud … that life of this concrete …

beforehand to it … with a garland of flowers of the sun-plant
around her neck… let her be seated on this branch of peepul branch… for once

taking the warmth of the kites flown after having a thread-cut
let the cows of man be productive by a few inch more



Spraying red-rose

to print herself the headache of the magnolia
sometimes spreads up to the legs of the ripe mangos

in the water that creeps up to the horizon
the magic-deer of panchbati is sailing solo

under the neon-sun the groundnuts learn
the vow-tale of the deep lipstick

if in the centre of the mango-pith … standing on the hanging-balcony
there is a flower of guava … then …while walking along her sweet grievances
some day that handmade fan must be traced… to make the clouds that are swept in by storm more literate … the time to dip the painting brush
in the colour of whose recommendations is still……..

it happens… from the desire to get printed
the magic-deer… before reaching to any literacy-centre …
some dusts gather on her body…some part is eaten by the ants…

although there should have been some arrangements
to spray the red-rose regularly

and next … the winter comes

the hands want to be stolen
under the blue scarf

anatomy of oranges

you’re not adams apple

the fruits from tree of the knowledge
of good and evil
in the middle of the garden of eden
in genesis

yet at you
the round oranges of this afternoon-town
i stare

and my pate gradually
becomes pregnant

the wind that comes after
having a touch of your lips
puts the waging of its tail on my forehead

and my guava-leaf begins to melt

thus my hardware-business is going
into liquidation

the physician to the king is telling
it’s the symptom of an awful fever attended with
the morbidity of the three humours of the body

used and used and used

your smile has not yet become
stupid

so from where the lamp-posts of the
town start

there are the cutlets and the bolster
they are not the only to utter the last words

i’m too
in this summer
trying to decorate
the gate of my cage like wedding ceremony

if any soundless dew-drop comes
to prepare and feed me
my birth-day frumenty

but i’ve no tongue
at all

all over the face there are only the eyes

and to the fate of my staring-at
has ever so much blessings been

the canto of begging

1.
when the morning sets in
with the sun rising in the east
i put on the dress of a beggar
extended up to the horizon
and the canto of my begging starts

i beg
beside the big-bazar
beside the fly-over
beside the college-campus
beside the cow-market

you then put your elbow
on the body of the day
giving a perfect and unbiased pose
to attached to the album of life

people of the working-class
spread hither and thither
to write some more decimal fraction
on the notebook of life

2.
in the dusts and soil of rural-bengal
in the testament written by the grass
i am a son of the immortal

my begging-bowl is the most
favourite go-ahead of a alone man

then speaking around are
the chop singara aluposta

and the love-story of a hyacinth
blooming in the pond
blind by mud

also in the overflowed dustbin of the city
waiting rightly with an erected head
the excitement of your absence

3.
coming to this canto of begging
do you know
i enjoy both
your intensity and your sharpness

your secret current flows me to the pore of the skin
of the body of the puller of a hand-barrow
your cold attracts me
towards the syllabus of waning moonlight

i do realise now that the stale afternoons
saved in my pocket
stitched so many new muscles
with my vocal chord

and i’m howling in joy…

4.
what’s an enjoyment… hahaha…day after day
spending too much chaos
and living to so little extent
tell me is it the least

within the left-over on the leaf-plates
after eating by the baboos
i can discover more and more
love

the mango tree the grass-hopper my begging-bowl
and from the tune of the laxmi-panchali
coming from the middle-class houses
listen, how flourishing is my mother-tongue

5.
all long the day i beg

i beg rice pulses oil salt
royal blood

in exchange i also distribute
peace… peace… and peace…

and the horses of the gypsies making
a dip-swimming in the peace-water

in the canto of my begging
holding a whole body of love
i learn how to be burnt
by the shadow of the trees

i give up all my courage
to book a room in your youth
only for me

6.
going upstairs on the railway foot-bridge
i see the strong light of neon-lamps

the girl from the avtar of the flex
induced trance

the aroma of chhatim-flower in the air
and the song of a blind-beggar
with tambourine

those neon-light flex-women
beggar’s-song and flower odour
i see they are all alive
in the canto of my begging

under the evening-star

7.
in the canto of my begging
at the day’s end
the moon that rises behind the rain-tree

i put up in her hands
the lemon-leaves the water-balloons the goal-kicks
that i have had throughout the day
by begging

and i beg from her the magic-wand
by the touch of which the date-palm
that was someday burnt by a thunder-bolt
in front of the church
looks very infatuating

and my dress as a beggar gradually
becomes a royal-dress

pouch poetry

hereunder is served some poetry pouches full of love,
dear reader, stir them as you like,
if you wish you may crack them to pour into mouth,
you may smear them on your body
or you may sprinkle them on the ground
and then chant the name of god
with love and enjoyment

1.
the simplicity that rolls down
from the body of the sweet-meat
made by my mother

let it brings light
to our radish-red love-story

to hear or to notice
love
does not need
putting an ear on the wall
of the wall-street journal

the bottle could be filled
from the voice

when you go to fill the bottle
you would see that everywhere
the arrangement of picnic is ready

when i want to take part in that feast
my neighbours would drive me towards
the home

although i’ve spent all my life
running behind the love


2.
who’s won the muddy-battle
was yesterday’s politics

my addiction is actually to cater
the pouch of love
to develop all vitamins
and all bathrooms

people say you don’t love
the claps of the rats

yet i’ll come down
from the branch of a guava-tree
as a wave-of-shopping-mall
to the lake of your love

now i’ll jump out
from this computer screen
to register a kiss
on your lips


3.
the heart is half-sunk
in the window

to some extent
in the lipstick too

on the dinner-plate
there is the feelings of the lord

that means
i’ve to be burnt more
i do agree

i would become
the sculpture of khajuraho

this happenings may have been
the right search for love

on either-side of which
a green is being worked out
by the nostalgic-cycle

whose colour-texture is very much harappa
which has too many geometric-memories


4.
an undertone is speaking
from within the solitude

now i’m in very much
distress

or i’m in love

i don’t know my love is what-for
may be that’s an arrangement only

so easily are those interactions
stitched with words

strenuous or effortless
in flight
initiated
with seclusion

but when in the sinking of the playfulness
i write the games of the street-charmers

the birds again and again
pierce the archery

thus becoming ashes
through travelling

in time-gaps still
the audacity to compose poems
on you


5.
is it true love
or i do take it granted
that i’m in love

or i do love to think
that i’m loving

and there is
neither any welcome address
nor any opening song
in my love

my experience with heat of fire
and with burning pain
in the flames of water
is nothing less


6.
in course of burning
i look around

the chilly-plant in the tob
planted in my won-hand
producing green-chillies

oh-ho how sweet they are

it is no chilled-body
that has earned
my life or death

no remarkable mark
is endorsed
on the lotus-leaf

now easily some words
can be written
on you

i don’t know whether
those would be at all
some lines of a poem


7
someone falls in loves
someone makes love
love comes to some another

there is the far-off
whispering

at first she constructs me
then destroys rightly

i notice her
for the first time in six weeks

the love
that writes
in the footnote of the tennis-ball
a desperate struggle for existence

within our skull
there is the love

or the midnight of the orion

the little squirrel asked now
are you in your seventies
or eighties

those houses with the coating of
the sky the air the light-and-shade
provide me with the presentation of
a wig and
a set of artificial teeth


8.
the love
that touches the hand
in drizzling

the love
that gets lost in the brandishing
grasses

would they want to inform
that the flowers don’t have any skyscraper

in the layers of the flesh and blood
of the detergents
as if a whole human civilisation has been suffering
from suppressed pain

within it with the dry spell of
anger and cough
the time

had there been no feeding from the love
does the human civilisation stagger


9.
do you think those words
or it’s myself

whatever may you say now
i’ll travel within a great death
to die

rather after my demise i may tell
i’ve informed everyone …look

beneath the large evergreen flower tree
the game of light and shadow continues

beside those simple households
besides a high-head mobile-tower
what else would you like to be

is it a bath in the ganga-river is it a leaf
of the water-lily or it’s a king-cobra
tell me

i would now make love
with that idea from you


10.
the apparent golden pot that i thought
to be the underneath of a kadam-tree

in the dim light i can notice that
the stars in the sky are disappearing

this session of poetry
is coming to an end

now where would i
go

to that little home

the home
a tiny word of 4 letters

within that home
the children are giggling
playing … and making funs

when i entered
with a tri-cycle in hand
for them

i have been perplexed
many old persons are waiting there
to shake hands with me


11.
almost most of my desires
are very much hurt

to show it publicly
i wrap bandages
around all over my body

i keep on the stage-drama

in our programme of reading poetry
tea is served twice
current has gone off for three times
for four times the mobiles ring

to pick up love
some people think about returning back
from today’s dais to the ancient stage
of performing folk-drama

then they are also sympathetic
to my sufferings


12.
everyday
on my way to return home from the school
when my mom took hold of my hands

i could see in my body
the dancing of an unforgettable
aura

even now that mystical halo is walking
on the leaves of the trees
to fulfill my mornings

that wayfaring along the road
is ringing far and far-off

thus taking bath in every day’s
dust smoke hue and cry

many such love
gradually gets aged

is it true
in the long run
i too
would be the ingredient
of a fairy-tale

just because i love
that paddy field

some time later
she will also become
human


13.
then she will make all of us
join her walking

those inmost feeling
those memories meditations

the loneliness and solitude…

sans the touch of the imagination of
a crater…
a creator…

this blunder…
this socially outcast white …

this type of uneven…
and irrelevance…

sume words
when peep in the mind
i surprise to see that
it’s ten to 2 at night

then in the balcony
my father is crying

he always notices some grave-yard men
in front of him

and sheds tears


14.
after the dry leaves of the winter
fall in innumerable drops
the spring comes

the cover-face of spring means
a note-book of the rain-tree
letting float in the sun-water

and mr harry says that
this question of change
is a major pull

because all the unreal talks
you are delivering one by one

to keep pace with it
the ambulance comes at 10am
with a stale dead-body

in it’s shirt
is written the spelling of myself

i then sat on the grey volume
of the college-campus

in the front
a beggar from the war of waterloo
is passing by

over the dust of myself
with a faster pace
blowing is the thoughts of

ataraxia
in the air… and air… and air…


15.
if your wishes colour silver
then do return back to the x-mass dancing
of the autumn

sound of whose far-off hoof-steps
digging so much soil of
story-weeds

i went into the nail-polish
with the proof of tea-cup
in my hand

there in the midst of lot of snow-flakes
and in the bed soft with the light of the candle
is now that honey-name more tarnished

now the atomic-howling
does not follow the rules of nature

so the rain-tree that seeks a-field-more-sky
with the hope to become king after the sun-rise

so that king is now waiting
in the grocer’s shop
at a stretch for an hour


16.
does her well-wisher esse then thinks
to escape from the love-making whirl-wind

on the dry branches of the axis power
the new generation of the birds

rather stop a while there silently and listen
which song is hidden in the bronze-buddha

or in the school of the terracotta-horse

i’m now opening the coating
of the night-enamel to read this home

and behind the coo of dove
is smiling

the god of the penalty-kick


17.
sitting on an orange-coloured balcony
in an outsider lane
the green is writing poems

better than the face-powder

from this side all long the famine
i’m the priest of the
agro-based civilisation

still-then i think
why so much light of partiality
is on the body of the chrysanthemum

within the monsoon
in collusion with the hair-band
now thousands of birds are born

they can hear my
dry straws and twigs

whose hearing is the police
in so depth of the forest

don’t move the
dreadful resorts

one such photograph of the girls
who wakes up in the midnight

speechless…
unmindful …
destruction…

that is you now

i’m then in the spore
of the perfume-bounded body
of match-making


18.
who has lied in the box
made up of the temperature
of god

all on a sudden
there is a hue and cry
in the abdomen of the time
wearing a dirty pajama

actually that has been filtered up
from the voices of rock-songs

the roaming
of a fatigued traveller …

the lies
within their wishes
write my existence

and then run
to buy vegetables
from the station-market

so many lay-offs
come to the body of paper-weight

to listen to all those
is not improper

walking through the traffic-jam
gradually
this home becomes solely my home

one day the golden of
human

then it is i
who is you

and walking through the
monsoon

on either side of the field
it is all autumn


19.
when borrowing the religion of
the night-queen
i fall in love

then is it real
that our mangos and jack-fruits
can make the perfumed-soap
vigorously from the light of the
blood-line

i count the bells of the churches
ringing repeatedly

and piercing the image
of your prominent face

rounding through lots of old
the love becomes exhausted

and the love comes back
in the form of college-classes

there you myself
and so many notes
of the body

sigh of sin θ

in this world of the limped nuptial
i’ve appeared as a power-missile of the lac-dye
that is used by the hindu women
to paint the border of their feet

the tooth-ache of some-one pumpkin
that grows on the thatched roof of a hut
has wringed spirally
my mythological birth with corporate death

managing and arranging my thoughts
on what I was in the past
what I would be in the future
or what is my dos at present
the wonder-paintings of the altamira cave
unfolds its wings beside my painful in-growing nail

and in her own sky of miss marry
my hands become so much condensed in every drops
as if within that moping smog
without any speech
speaks the twinkle twinkle little star…

beside that labour pain what awakes then
is the patronage of a one-horned idea
along which while walking without much preparation
i can enter into any e-mail

though our love pulls a very long-face about itself
and in the opinion of the married women
the sigh of the sin θ of our love wants to cultivate
mustered-seeds on the soil of the inhabitants
of this human-life
with a stick by which the monkeys are driven out
what more can i say in lieu of
a piece of red-salute written in green ink

if i say in the dawn of the 52-cards
i touch your face
by the hands of a school-boy
your calmness and earthly perfume
make me stunned

then in this field of sweat and war
the explosion of logic and intellect
of your top-floor
seems more famous anchor than the milk
that spilt over on the fire

and more to say
when daubing all over the body
all taste of the path of joy
enter into then fort of gold you can notice there
when in some unknown moment
my pajama dies socially
by the bite of the snails and oysters

to keep the heart of the break-kiln always move
this form-less interactions are so well
in the harvest-arrangement of the late-autumn
we are all uttering the name of cherry-flower
and begging shelter from the mango leaves

the cause of spreading over of the fragrance
from our secret myrobalan to every side of the pillows
is not only such that in the morning
an empty ink-pot says to the rain-water
you are beautiful

it is also remarkable that
coming to our half-articulated travelling
the writings carved on the granite stone
become very much ashamed also

and taking the busy market-price of the sun-glass
in the fold of the loin cloth tied at the waist
my both hands are also marked very much
in the omnibus of the dancing-bar

such is just because it is the art and science of navigation
that pastes some earth-wave
having no number-plate
with the public
rolling down on the mat of the summer

it is impossible
to memorise the history of those
so much contended-hunger
so much contended-sleep

it is all right that the staff-members
of our vibgyr university are all alive
but they are the existence of some
bio-data only

arrangement of so much smiles and tears
in the nomenclature of banana-bed of mrs sofia
is not to tell the directionlessness of her fishery products
but if the culture of the wild trees assuming figure
then there remains no separate entity of the rbcs
inside or inside-up of the veins and arteries

all are the world of cosmetic-surgery
all are the arena of displaced national integrity
that is the only way to get admitted
into the still water of the horse-race

so the making of this self-portrait of the tip-cat game
by own-hand
so is the fancy of the engagement ring of the bursar

as a result of the headache in the au fait knee-joint
all the rats on the rice-pot of margaret
become very angry
and when they make their performance
you can’t catch them by extending your hands

so there is this sky-blue printed sari of desdemona
now take refuge under her perfumed disaster
and it is feared that there may be the drops of sweat
on the lobes of her nose extremely devoted
that the trees become to reside in

how much confusing is that cascade
in each of whose earings the dark fortnight
and whose eden garden is so large
that all those people with crevasses dwell there

they stay in a group of nine
neither eight nor ten
just n for 9
n is also meant for the nancy
and the narcissus
and the sensational appearance of the
nereid

once again we rub green-chilly after pouring water
in the parched-rice on the ancient plate made of brass
it is right that the peak is separated down from the temple
but it does not hurt the priest

by the right of our walks strewed outside
we too when hiding ourselves in the regime of fire
with our intention and activities
with our standpoint
with our conduct and behaviour
or any instant rule or direction
or our deeds
that compel the rotation of the deodorant

thus after the eye-operation
the love between you and me is now
seeing more week-ends than before
to her knee has been submitted many caws
painted in water-colour

in every corner and every hole of the body
that pulls the rickshaw the wind enters
and in every root-cause of the sufferings
the ripple of annihilation of love

from the shop of dip-swimming now
you can also purchase soundlessness
to feel the spirit of chrysoberyl

now you need the work for 100 days
to gain the power you need to keep pace
with the graph of the terracotta
that may also be a long day of fasting

then on the back of that hungry conch-shell
a globe shouts
the other’s world puts its office-water
in the fountain of cactus the roaring of which
pours so many telephone-calls into the ears

then in our market the ear-bursting sound of the generator
then in our forest-land
the bullet-fight between maoist and the joint-force

then with the enlarging and waning of our moon
are the bright fortnight the dark fortnight and the leaves of wood-apple

you may say now
those demerits relate to the seeds of the gm oranges
but just think the scanning of hibernation of the philtre
or of the kite the thread of which is cut off
they can’t escape their responsibility too

then tell me to whom i could give
my sad melting point

but then to do any work means
this trigonometry
outside the territory of copyright

then the connection of the biscuits
with the thoughts of the fire-works
is clearly dismantled

the border-zone of all relations thus keep themselves apart
and due to a sharp difference in the chromosomes of sand-stone
our dwelling-house becomes a museum

to build a hospital with a big moustache
at last within the hypnotized company
the shadow of our bed-room appears

then the light of the social moon is like the materials
with which the inner parts of the sorrows of the pomelo
is made up

it may be well for making great
the art-work of the horse-rider
that is wrapped with the handkerchief of ocean

it must be waiting for my shampoo-power too

some cure may be offered by the paraffin
and her open hair

but one deed of the rose-petals
and the convex sweet drops of molasses
is the flame of thumb-impression
that is born and brought up by the pan-cake
in-between sauce-pan and peter pan

in this all-pervasive panorama of slang-opera

notebook for taking

autograph

before the dense shower of rain

i’ve placed my notebook for taking autograph

before the whole-night music-show

before the non-busted shell of tear-gas

but i can’t put it before your uvula

till now

sitting in the dark-balcony

touching the nevus

here i am

creeping in the air

is my silky handkerchief

in its every layer

is the disgorgements of the burnt cigarette

and the radioactive water

all over the body

the bird procreates assassination

getting lost with its wings unfolded

in the common people

without leaving a fingerprint