Saturday, September 13, 2014

Love Immortal

Love Immortal



You gather dry leaves ,
lifeless magnolia twigs
in an end of autumn dusk,

added my noisy manuscript poems.

added my dried liver, kidney

and another organ
which by mistake you called " Heart "
You always pretended to
have possessed that.

You made an eucleadian circle ,

under a bright turquoise sky,
shamanic drums began beating,
you poured some well preserved
inflammable liquid
extracted from my life.

friction of your dry thighs
lighted a mystic fire
dry circle danced in flame ,
until all burnt to glorious ashes,
Immortal Love too .


@ amiya
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Sunday, August 10, 2014

At Lushan Temple

Poem: Ching An (1851-1912)


[Golden Autumn]


At Lushan Temple
In the shimer of distance
the bell speaks pure Sanskrit
seeing off the slanting sun.

Secret, silent
blossoms beaneth
the overhanging cliffs
send their fragrance on the stream.

In the single wind chime at the temple's eaves
the wind speaks for itself.

Before my window, ten thousand trees,
the rain's the first Fall chill.

The hills, locked in cloud essence,
pry into my purity.

The river carries the ancient sound of the billows
all the way to the sea.

I won't admire the thousand-year crane
that nests the ageless pine.

He doesn't know that in the human world
groves turn into seas.

Tuesday, August 5, 2014

Mute Love

A burning bay leaf
waiting for a day
when the green lemon grass
will whisper
"I love you "
today tomorrow passed
dawn after dawn
night after night,
springs passed winter too,
Bay leaf lost his splendour,
brought finally to grocer's shop,
red chilly , black pepper too
and bought by sky high spinster,
thrown into plastic prison.
Distance wailed in the
lemon grass heart,
Tearful dreams dried
in the bay leaf life,
in between gaping sighs
and bone less sky.
@ Amiyo

Monday, July 21, 2014

Charukeshi

Charukeshi *

17 July 2014 at 20:13

*Charukeshi is a Hindustani Classical  Rag.

Applauding raindrops

on mindless restless windscreen,
and inside in my palm
two trembling doves.
Its you.

Did I not burn you
in forest fragrance ?
Did I not Burn myself too
in the groans of smothered bed ?
Yet, We wanted little or nothing
from each other.

I kept loving you
like " Charukeshi Rag"
until I was a tired soul,
until I turned to a fossilized rock of Bidisha.

Tonight, for whole night
you are everywhere and nowhere.
some truth tremble

some lies too,
You start and finish me.

And I like the distant star
roll myself into myself
like some ignored starfish
while in between the crease
of your yellow dress you
stacked away your love
in some unknown cave.


@amiya

Wednesday, March 19, 2014

A Letter to an Author

To 
Mr John Green
Author of a " Best seller"
'the fault in our stars'

dear sir,
i have finished reading your 'best seller ' and i feel absolutely disgusted. i really wonder how a pathetic book like this can be considered a ' best seller'.
we ordinary mortals have ' fear'. we live with fear.fear of rising, fear of falling,fear of hating , fear of being hated. in fact ' the side effect' of living is fear.a child fears the darkness, a grown up fears loss.a nation fears defeat and disaster. BUT WE ALL FEAR DEATH. there are innumerable stories , poems ,dramas, movies etc on the theme of ' death'.
We mortals suffer from ' fear psychosis' and in our society some 'creative' people  THRIVE on this human misery.death is inevitable. it is absurd but it is the ultimate truth.
but when novelist writes novels with only one motive ,which is to make huge quick money over this phenomenon called fear psychosis, i consider it as abominable.many people after reading your novel would let go a sigh of relief ' ahh, i am alright jack'. but have you ever thought about the excruciating pain the families and friends undergo after their dear ones leave them dying of any form of 'terminal illness'. tell me mr. green is there any illness in this beautiful world which is 'not' terminal?
creating fear psychosis has many advantages. your kind of writers make the whole medical world richer and wealthier in addition of you becoming a prize winning author in rather obscene way.

@ amiya

Friday, March 7, 2014

Ashes

Ashes

7 March 2014 at 15:14
Shelf full of second hand knowledge,
in my cellular brain fast asleep.
The wall screams 
with selfproclaiming paintings
crucifymy elegant consciousness.
Dervish dance of the dizzy garden
intoxicates my life force,
why should I stop ?

The hesitant sunset closeness
with rhythmic breath,
*******************************
*******************************
creates
destroys too.
The passion  makes 
your maverick thighs ecstatic,
eyes fearful.

Why not now burn the whole of me,
why not store the ashes from 
ghats of Banares
to take away
for another Sehnai celebration ?

@amiyo

* ashes > sindoor ( the vermilion powder used by brides)
* Banares > the hindu cremation site
* Sehnai > a wind musical instrument played during wedding.

Tuesday, March 4, 2014

Melancholic Ship

Melancholic Ship

Where we sat that day
there was this river 
touching our feet,
there was that boat dancing
and a little further away
a melancholic ship.

When you were weaving 
everlasting joys  on my lips,
The large ship there wailed
sounding her horn.

From that day on
bit by bit slowly
that melancholic ship 
pierced our everlasting pleasures
sounding that horn
Everyday.

@ translated
from purnendu potree.

Saturday, March 1, 2014

Has my heart gone to sleep

Has My Heart Gone To Sleep?

Has my heart gone to sleep?
Have the beehives of my dreams
stopped working, the waterwheel
of the mind run dry,
scoops turning empty,
only shadow inside?

No, my heart is not asleep.
It is awake, wide awake.
Not asleep, not dreaming—
its eyes are opened wide
watching distant signals, listening
on the rim of vast silence. 

Sunday, February 23, 2014

Take them back

Take them back.

He gave me all,
This here,that there,
The joys , the pains
Of days and nights,
Rhythmical hopes
throbbing sterility
with ecstatic passions,
cloudy days, starry nights,
words he gave me
silence he gave me
tears he gave me 
laughter he gave me.

NOW its time 
he takes them back,
 make me a  beggar
with an empty bowl
to fill it with empty sky
empty void,
doing nothing 
being nothing.

@ amiyo