I couldn't write...

What remained of a leftover cigarette
Filled in,every wrinkle of my brain.

I sit down with my diary
The desire to write a new tune.

The whole of life
Tagore had penned it all
What was left,in pieces
The others drew a full stop to it...

My pages remained a complete blank
I couldn't write a fresh poetry...




The government has changed hands
The blue of the sky redone.

People stand by each other,and
Sings love,on air...

The soil smells of change,yet
Calcutta is decidedly Calcutta.

I write the same poetry in a different name,because
I couldn't write a fresh poetry...




Be it Ranjana or Charulata
Bela Bose to Nilanjana
They breathe the city,in
Halter neck tops and tight jeans.

Altitude is got,off high heels...

The song-seller of yesterday
Roams the streets and by-lanes
Living in bits,off his harmonium.

The difference of the grey skies,and
The metallic tramline,ends in
One more of the same chord.

One more page lies crumpled in the corner.

I tried and tried,and yet
I couldn't write a fresh poetry.....