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There is no god in the Poetry
If conception is the greatest frieght of zero
Future is the foundation/base of death
Then past must be the darkest one
If a warrior is on a sleepless/ever awake symbol like horse
All the irony of peace is worthless
Dazzling ornaments of unornamented Kuchakumbha
Anklet of Adhamarga and
If a stanza of a song is contentment
What is the power of wine that is the frolic of king
Is the depression of the subjects
Till now where is Buddha in the Poetry of Antyakhyari metre
In the same reflective/so and so life?
A pair of Mynah pecks and sprinkles sunshine dropped down on the ground
Where is Buddha
In the journey of one day started with great happiness.
After evening by making four walls against the songs of Crickets
I enter
Closing my eyes
I search for Buddha
Again I die for one day
Awaking later on
If I depress
After reading this poem too
Then where is Buddha
After a rape
A pair of downcast
breast coat
Buddha or the swans of the Muse/Swarswati
Malted sheath is the uattractive arum or the simile of the hated river
In the magical blue of non-existent
The imagery of a poet is sketched in the suspended corner of the third eye.
That's the last law
Readers are howling
There is no Buddha in the Poetry titled 'Buddha '
Where!Where is!
In the blood .In the brothel.
In the guest-thouse .
No where.
In the deer-race the turban of the labours stricks the paws of the machines.
In the shelter of a powerful one who is the half-fed reel?Why?
Answer is certain if Buddha is met?
Still in love of contentment readers may search for Buddha
At the end of all the confusing concepts of occupying countrys
All the Historians died declaring war as the worst thing
Smashing the kingly horoscope of a clergyman's sack
A new challenger is in the imaginations of a philosopher
In the borders of the wealthy
Weaks
The bom of infiltration blasts
At the end of all the plunderings the backbone of independence breaks
The poet will put an end to his pen/ terminate his pen after the search of Buddha
The poem will come to an end after a few time.
Have patience.
The poet becomes the gatekeeper of schools if Buddha is there in the school bags of the children.
No.
No one was born to be oppressed/Dalit.
To be servant.
It is sure that someone forced/oppressed at the bigging
All the priests
The philosophers
The scholars
The rulers
Failed
Why for?
Buddha is the East-West of the answer
The poet will be in great calamity in not meets
Buddha will know-- at last at the end such faith
Where the poet will go
After a passage in the Digholipukhuri
To the Artist Avenue ?
On a wall of the Artist Avenue
Champak Borbora drew and hung a picture of Buddha
In the frame on a magical smoky path
Buddha is departing/proceeding..
There was a time - you talked to me.
Today is another time - I am talking to you.
There was a time - you had been oblivious
Today is another time - I am oblivious
Wheel rotates thus
Yesterday as I talked I did not feel as before
Because you had been in the West - I in the east
There had been a time you were dissatisfied with something
Today is another time something happened
You like something
I am a fallen tree but old
As you cross you can kick me
But on return you can still talk to me
Yesterday you talked haltingly pondering on between
Because you very well know
You have laid a trap
Without letting the lion or the mouse
To get the scent of it
Cautiously
Pacifying yourself
Yesterday
You taught the rule of
Not the light or the ray
But of darkness
Yesterday you knew
You were vouching against yourself
Who is mightier
Wind or the Earth?
asked Neer
The Earth
is a round clod of clay
It hangs in the air
Amused and roused
She then made
Some orbs of clay
and kept pelting them up.
What are you doing, dear?
I asked her
'Pelting earth' she smiled.
Yes I can see,
but why?
Let it hover over there
If it will!
We need a new earth.
CURSE
I saw a variegated face on your hands
I saw a chequered venomous snake
Eyes bulging
Cheek nose swelled up like the character
in the painting of Van Gogh
Coughing intermittently
I saw an amazing sight on your palms
Magical actor fingers
I got startled on reading
What have you written
How dare you
Making a mincemeat of people
What an astonishing devilish pen I saw
On your hands
1
Once I donated my old favorite shirt to a stranger
The man smiled as if the shirt was so happy to have him as his new owner
The shirt didn't cry for me at the time of departing
It didn't even bid me a goodbye
It kept staring at me when I was home
It waited for me dangling it sleeves
For me to put it on.
Though I had been wearing it for so long
Neither the shirt nor the relationship we shared have started to fade
That stranger had become the new owner of the shirt
Which I was no longer
He knew how to celebrate owning just an old shirt
He simply owned my shirt and left
Just a glance at it from behind
People could say it was me
And now I was sure the man would be mistaken as me by them
2
As such my house is no longer mine once I step out of it
My house becomes alert just I enter it
Everything in my house, my towel, my wash basin, my refrigerator, my pajamas etc
They all relax as soon as I step out
I become of my department the whole day
My wife becomes of hers
My daughter becomes of her school
All alone my house doesn't be of its own
I don't be of it the whole time
I can roam around being a home
Just because of my house
Without any doubt I give my house my sweat and some relaxation, in exchange
But one day I had to leave my house
Where my cupboard used to hold my clothes
The tank held water for me
The bed held pleasure for me
And the mirror used to hold my image
The water doesn't need to drain when I'm not home
The bed can take some rest
The mirror can look at itself
I had to leave my house that kept waiting till my meal was cooked
My house became of someone else's with the same locks and keys
Many may still enter that house mistaking it as mine
3
I become of a new home
'Home' is like a mouse trap
Wherever I am, it brings me back to it
Those with many houses
Are rich in traps
A shirt leaves my house first
Then the whole house
4
The buyer of my house
Searches hard for me
Just like he searches the rats to trap
He founds the cage but not me
I'm not a bait
I'm a homeless
Whose courtyard is full of rats moving impatiently.
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