Thursday, May 24, 2012

The Husband's Prayer

Resist not my hands that'll move
Over and under with pulsating veins
And scatter all the knots and seams in the way
As pebbles on the path of streams among hills
That roar into unstoppable falls.

The surge that'll move
Through soft-soothing hands
Over our babe in the cradle asleep,
Now through my lips and finger will flow
In these our honeysuckle days.

Hours are lost amidst unceasing zest
That blossoms amidst sheets of sweet unrest.

Sunday, May 20, 2012

Instead

I've pleaded for smiles for hours on her door
And all that I got were barbs instead.


Left without soles, on high-noon of hate
I 'd hoped for life-giving shade in her strands
But tied to a stump was withered instead.


I've confessed my sins and mended my ways
But even as I pined for redemption of faith
Smitten with wrath was damned instead.

Pleaders are fools, they better be now dead,
Reborn I would rather be a robot instead.


Wednesday, May 16, 2012

The Epitaph of Abinash C. Halder


My decorated files
Full of records and prize
Are burnt into fistful of ashes tonight.

Pinpricks of shame
Have shrivelled into dust
Inflated statues in the museum of self
Where regrets cry out ‘No Vacancy’ tonight.

Fired from the palace of hope, therefore,
I wander as a beggar
And knock on all the graves
To interview empanelled skeletons tonight.

Farces all done, I’ll get me a new boat:
Charon will drop in for his coins tonight.


Note: Charon is supposed to ferry souls to Hades, according to the Greek mythology.

Sunday, May 13, 2012

Returning at Night…


Flicker from the exhausted eyes
Still through my veins now rush
Murmurs of unforeseen hope.

Clich├ęs of depth cannot catch
Pin code of pupils now lost.

Far beyond catalogues and volumes of calls
These my beacons of aquamarine light
That’ll shore my being to the end of my stop
And blanket my cheap-rented sleep.

Distilled in brief little glimmers of sense
I long for a reciprocal glance that’ll shape
Prospects of words beyond items and price. 

Tuesday, May 1, 2012

The Urn


Each in his cubicle of unyielding walls
With spreadsheets of hours of calculated loss
And interests of compounded hate.

My acrobatic words
Now misstep their leaps
And crash their bones along walls.

Springs and ladders now can’t be of help
When maps of lands beyond walls are lost.

Caving my head within files and screen
I’ve typed my bones with care.

So here’s my urn to the future unborn:
Build all your thunders or burn.



Note: According to an Indian legend Dadhichi, a great sage, realising that his bones were the only way by which the gods could defeat the demons willingly gave his life in a pit of mystical flames he summoned with the power of his austerities.Brahma is then said to have fashioned a large number of weapons from Dadhichi's bones, including the Vajra/thunder, which was fashioned from his spine. The gods are then said to have defeated the demons using the weapons thus created.