Was it me...

The pleasant breeze did kiss
All of the skin,it could find.


My sky was burnt,of
Thoughts and cigarette ash.


The air had love in it.


My breath was soiled,of
A lost innocence,and
A forgotten simplicity...




I stood there,but

The mirror was murky,or,was it me.....

What was left...

You had left my door,and
We knew,there was nothing left...


I reclined in my deckchair
Picked up a novel,but couldn't read a page...


I looked back at the table.


The half-left sandwich,the lettuce leaves
The scar of a rich lipstick on the coffee cup...


Carrying all of you,within
They had been left behind...




You had left my door. But.....

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.....

Dawn and dusk...

The fingers that once held him by the hand
Wrinkled of time,tremble...


The shoulder he used to complain to
Dried,off the last of his tears...


The eyes he searched his answers in
Weathered by defeats,that couldn't be forgotten...


The first poetry he had stolen to write
Rusted in the yellowed pages of neglect...


The unspoken dream that was never dared
Buried deep down his actuality...






A son and a father walks along
The difference of dawn and dusk.....

That night I rained inside me...

The sky was too black
Hiding in it,all the grey of life
She had to give in,once for all.


That night I rained inside me...






The skin of a dead dream
The dirt that had piled within
Some habits had to be forgotten.


That night I rained inside me...






Days that had grown distance
The memories contained,in my wrinkles
I had to give up lingering.


That night I rained inside me.....

The life of a dream...

It was another of a morning
Basked in the broad daylight,until
I woke off the dream...



All of it was just a dream...




The girl I met at the bus stop
The secret wish on a singular eyelash
The innocence,long lost
They were all a dream...




The hundred dreams that died everyday
In bits and pieces...


The one dream
I thought was my reality...


They were never there,never born.

All of it was just a dream...




The missed call,I had never missed...


The poetry I was writing,or
I thought was my very own...


They were there...a dream.....

Theory of relativity...

I could laugh and yet not be happy...

It's all about parallelism...




I could just walk down the road
In search of new,you could think.


And only I would know the story
Of
A lost traveller...




I could sit down and write
All of a gibberish...
And you would call that poetry.




I could just spill some water off a glass
And you would debate it
Half of a fill or emptiness...




I could just speak aloud to me
And you would call me a lunatic...


The side of the asylum you stand in
Defines normalcy.....