Poem Of Alienation

This is not yet my poem

the poem of my soul and of my blood
no
I still lack knowledge and power to write my poem
the great poem I feel already turning in me

My poem wanders aimlessly
in the bush or in the city
in the voice of the wind
in the surge of the sea
in the Aspect of Being

My poem steps outside
wrapped in showy cloths
selling itself
selling
'lemons, buy me le-e-e-mons'

My poem runs through the streets
with a putrid cloth pad on its head
offering itself
offering
'mackerel,sardine,sprats
fine fish, fine fi-i-i-sh...'

My poem trudges the streets
'here J'urnal' 'Dai-i-i-ly'
and now newspaper caries my poem.

My poem goes into the cafés
'lott'ry draw-a-tomorra lott'ry draw-a-tomorra'
and the draw of my poem
wheel as it wheels
whirl as it whirls
never changes
'lott'ry draw-a-tomorra
lott'ry draw-a-tomorra'

My poem comes from the township
on Saturdays bring the washing
on Mondays take the washing
on Saturdays surrender the washing and surrender self
on Mondays surrender self and take washing

My poem is suffering
of the laundress's daughter
shyly
in the closed room
of a worthless boss idling
to build up an appetite for the violation

My poem is the prostitute
in the township at the broken door of her hut
'hurry hurry
pay your money
come and sleep with me'

My poem lightheartedly plays at ball
in a crowd where everyone is a servant
and shouts
'offside goal goal'

My poem walks barefoot in the street

My poem loads sacks in the port
fills holds
empties holds
and finds strength in singing
'tué tué tué trr
arrimbium puim puim'

My poem goes tied in ropes
met a policeman
paid a fine, the boss
forgot to sign the pass
goes on the roadwork
with hear shorn
'head shaved
chicken braised


a goad that weights
a whip that plays

My poem goes to the market works in the kitchen
goes to the workbench
fills the tavern and the goal
is poor ragged and dirty
lives in benighted ignorance
my poem knows nothing of itself
nor how to plead

My poem was made to give itself
to surrender itself
without asking for anything

But my poem is not fatalist
my poem is a poem that already wants
and already know
my poem is I-white
mounted on me-black
riding through life

A Woman of no Importance

She had once written on my scrapbook

“I love you without problems or pride”

She was no poet. She didn’t speak much English

She never spoke much anyways other than with her eyes.

Every morning she used to cruelly chastise the stars when

The night had left us without intimation but in intimacy.

She believed that daytime is for priests and politicians

And the darkness is for lesser mortals like us. Insolvent.

I had craved to be her 1947 fountain pen that

Drafted her Sociology notes and held her hair.

She used to laugh at fate and television with the same fervor.

Her laughter always reminded me of a mountain brook

Many a night I had drowned in it my crown and composure

And had died happily in my 17 year old death of freedom.

She had once explained to me in a local train that

The best politics happened between the flowers and springtime.

In her eyes I had seen dawns that shadowed all other dawns

In her breath I had smelt death that felt like Marilyn Monroe.

Desire and envy had chained me like a Roman galley slave to her

She had made me murder my soul and sleep with the same knife

Her love was cheap and saline that fired my breath

And complemented my cheap liquor, while I felt like Bobby Dylan.

It seems she had come from a secret right wing democrats

With a search warrant for my sanity.

Hypnotizing me with the scent of springtime in her breasts

Now they smell of stale flesh…and she has reduced to just another woman.

Amar kicchu "Bhalo Cheley" bondhu der uddeshye

Tomra bolccho gorm kaalei ebar namao borsha,
Tomra bolccho Kaalighate Maa ke keno banaccho-na forsha.
Tomra bolccho indur daurey jeet tei hobey amai
Tomra bolccho ta na hole dhukte debe na parai.

Tomra bolccho money ek ar mukhey ek kotha bolo
Tomra bolccho bibek bhule shubidhey bujei cholo.
Tomra bolccho kisher puran? Ke likheche Koran
... Tomra bolccho “Raakhun Moshai! Taaka-i Allah Taaka-I Bhogoban.

Tomra bolccho moruk Banglar manush, ki jai eshey taatey
Kintu Brihonnola potol tul ley bholona buk chapratey.
Tomra shobai shubro collar parar bhalo chele
Daant Keliye chobi tolo bideshe berate geley.

Tomra bolccho rokter rong shobuj holei bhalo
Tomra bolccho Goriber petey anno pheley Coca Cola tai dhalo.
Tomader kothai ogrogoti ki bhabe hobe South City na ele?
Tomra bolcho Sarada putro Sudipto ke Keno rekhechen Jail-e?

Maa er o noi Maashir o nawo tomra birol jaati
Je khane dekhbe palla bhari, taader-I khabey laathi.
Tomader progoti ar poriborton e ebar Bangla dublo Boley
Mirzaffar hoye tomra tobu ashbe kaaley kaaley

Warning - (A Translated Poem)

Yes, I am that man
Take a good look at me.
I have blood and honor dripping from my brows.
Choked in my tears I have come from that road
Which had just seen death very close.

I have eaten from poverty ridden platters
I have stood in hopeless Employment queues.
... I still have the smell of cheap perfumed oil in my hair.
My Breath is still filthy.

I have seen the impoverished beggar girl die in her sleep.
I had killed her.
I had killed that bureaucrat
Who was shamelessly taking bribes from that Marwari dealer.
I have laughed insolently at the imbecility of the Law.
I want to hear about Mamata’s will, that is a subject of jeer in the crowded bus.
I would not feel pity for the death of her Democracy.
I would sleep in my insecurity to wake up suddenly in love
Silently I would walk to her and kiss her eyes.
We would cry together for many different reasons.
To wake up alive again tomorrow.

I would clear my voice of all my inadequacies.
I would speak without any social punctuation.
Standing tall under the obscure sky
I would baptize myself in the holy oath
After all anger, hurt and desperation had bathed me in tears.

That I wouldn’t let the world live where I would perish

Zero Hour (A few lines on my dark side)

Come Gargee, Come my friend, come see my cubic existence.
Gargee would you call it living? Would you call it mortality?
Or is it my final game of chess
Between the dying and the dead?
I have phony page 3 smoke that glides through my scalded heart. Every Evening.
I have a banker’s blood that denies the existence to my heart.
I have sat crouched like a dog at... the reprobate feet of this world
To find the bitch in it.
Like a roach I have walked side by side with other roaches in this city,
Like a mosquito I have flown alongside other malignant mosquitoes of the parish.
In genuine darkness I have dived longingly inside a woman
Just to find that I never did have any living quarters there.

I have gone to placid theatres in my Coca Cola dreams
Dressed like that queer columnist.
I have blown away the scenes of deceit like a weak candle.
I have no animated camphor in my sweat Gargee
That would enrage me.
What would you call this Gargee?
I have tried to crucify myself in my insignificant bedroom
I have tried to understand the suffering of Christ.
I have wanted to bloom like a flower in your landscaped garden
To see if I could fall in love with you.
I have wiped off my inheritance and hierarchy like the 6 pm sweat of a rickshaw puller
I had sadly fallen asleep at my grave instead of dying for you.
Gargee this is how I had lived with you.
Just like stray kids swimming underwater at Dhakuria lakes.
Just like a pervert begging for a life lying next to a couple nauseatingly making love at midnight.
I have four walls that have lost time and dignity.
Its worn out rabid existence is still so dear to me.
I have a dead tree carrying the memory of a long ago dead spring.
I have people calling me unforgiving names.
I have a bundle of your letters partly devoured by a team of right wing termites.
I have a curse that makes me that makes me unyielding.
I have that final possession that I have tonight put at stake at your alter
For that personal zero hour with you.

I didn’t want to tell this to you Gargee.
But my winters are slowly getting colder.
I have a covetous thirst that parches me every night that I have never felt before.
I have a rodent smeared darkness in my saline quarters.
I have a mind stained with sin and death.
For I have lost my memories at a cheap Dharmatalla bar.
I have the sound of accusing sirens when I pray or when I kill women.
I have two hands that like strangers rarely follow my commands.
Rarely do I feel that they are mine.
I have eyes that like invalids stare at their actions like a Venetian Crystal
Waiting for that zero hour with you.

A Pledge

Last night I visited the ground zero of the 20th century graveyard
In the East there was Mephistopheles with heartache and darkness
In the West Lucifer stood smiling with arson and a loss of God.
While I stood between them I took a pledge for the price of soul and sleep.
That I would be tolerant like my illegitimate society

I took a pledge
That I would be tolerant towards all the diabo...lic ruling party mobsters
Who, every Sunday fill their empty bottles of stolen Scotch with the defeated blood
Of all those martyrs who stood in their pathway of greed and grotesque.
I decided I won’t take notice.

I took a pledge
That I would be tolerant towards the violent capitalist hunger
That had burnt Hiroshima and Nagasaki for the last hundred years
And which is still burning at schools and play grounds at Iraq, Afghanistan and Chile.
I would rather visit Starbucks to watch the NBA.

I took a pledge
That I would solemnly accept my children dying of thirst
In unfortunate villages where the cruel Cola army have usurped their waters
To be sold at foxy Supermarkets to Silicon breasted socialites.
I would escort them to the parking lot with a smile.

I made a promise
To Picasso, Ghatak, Antonionni, Blake and Sunilda
That I would sincerely relish the defunct display
Of the cross dressed pantomime and the graceless electronic diva every day.
For it is never art if it’s not on Page 3.

I made a pact
With the devil and the deep sea under a pyre lights of Keoratala
That I would slow burn my morality at the altar of sin and satisfaction.
I would even send Postcards to all vile real estate hustlers every winter.
My mother and memory have died long ago.

I took a vow
That I would not cry for me who have been dying since the last 20 years
I would rather celebrate my soulless existence for 40 odd years
And raise a toast to my socially successful friends for Health and Hypocrisy.
I would wear a suit stitched by some Italian school dropout.

I swear
I would refrain myself from painting pornography and philosophy on church walls.
“God is dead. Let us celebrate the death of God”. They said.
White house has published papers on the different shades of the blood
I would believe that their religious divide is my way to salvation.

I assured my beloved.
That I would not ever search for the scent of spring in her breasts.
I would not crave for any women who don’t wear Prada.
I would be satisfied with only the flab and flesh that she has on offer.
For I believe in social feminism.

Home is where the Bra comes off!

Lingerie Vs Underwear. There can hardly be an adequate comparison about them. In utterance the former formidably comes out as this sheer melodious waft of a Mediterranean wind blowing playfully through the ...clarinet of the Gods. You can actually close your eyes and see the true blue oceans, white pristine beaches and the aroma of the rich and famous skittering all over you like a gullible good feeling that comes rarely. Now try and say “Underwear”. Like me, most of you (even women) would surely experience aurally a blunt thud of a bag of sand being dropped at a Mid Saharan construction site from one of those vile looking construction trucks that often block your passage on the expressway. I can even compare it with the sound of a grumbling Baniya at Burra Baazar whose diet of curry daal had gone volatile inside. I have over the years given this subject a very detailed study. It had pleasurably revealed a lot of very critical aspect that can be a cornerstone in the battle of the sexes. Bras have been vital and I have been told of Rock Legends and Movie Stars had diligently evaluated performances by the number of Bras thrown on stage. Now in my adolescent years I was exposed engagingly to the Bra commercials (mainly Print) of B3, VIP and later Loveables. Not all dailies had them. They were studied with a great deal of reverie inside the Boy’s Toilets. Bikini snaps of MoonMoon Sen and Dimple Kapadia (remember Crowning Glory) were no short of a sexual nuclear attack. I was quite intrigued by its delicate engineering especially the straps and the little ring that held the straps to the body. Well that was art. Now Bras have been taken over by Engineering. I remember one of the more enterprising of the fellows in school had once smuggled in a sample. Well needless to say there was suppressed uproar inside the Boy’s Toilet during the Lunch hour. I could barely touch the material for about 2 and a half second. But when I touched and what I touched was NO BAPI JANGIYA. It was celestial. It was soft. It was supple. It was everything a 13 year old sexuality could be. There were definitely concentrated focus during monsoon when the girls shirts used to get wet outlining the Bra. However the same can never be said about RUPA GENJEE (Vests). I have had some very close women friends who were quite candid about everything but none ever mentioned even faintly eyeballing Sunny Deol in RUPA Frontline Ad inside the girl’s toilet, or ever holding the Men’s Inner with the same reverie as we did. Well vests were never handed down to boys by fathers in secret ceremonies confirming their leap from Boyhood to Manhood as were Bras. When a girl is 12-13, her mum buys her a splendidly silly article of clothing called a training bra. To train for what I wonder. I never had a training jock. And believe me, when I played football, I could have used a training jock more than any twelve-year-old needs a training bra. On looking back I can robustly say that Bras themselves held a stronger interest than what they used to cover. I am sure all would unanimously agree that the sight of Simi Garewal in a Bra was thousand times more erotic than all the Porn you have ever seen. Well since then Engineers have gone ahead and made a science out of this objet du art. Bras have been defined I feel with the same secret coding as has been used for Uranium 36C, 32D, 32E, well something that you would get to hear in 007 movies. Something I intend to master within this life time.
With the recent announcement that 600 year-old bras were found in Lemberg Castle in the Austrian Tyrol, historical romance writers of big-bosomed heroines may breathe easier. We may now confidently rig bra-like foundation garments for our ladies of the past, should they require them. For decades, writers have struggled to balance the received wisdom that bras were not used before the early twentieth century with the imagined discomfort of active heroines doing bouncy things like riding horses and running through the woods without adequate support.
Somebody said that Bras are a ludicrous invention; but if you make bralessness a rule, you're just subjecting yourself to yet another repression. Well I for one prefer my women to peel off slowly as I strongly believe that first rule of cleavage: it's not how low you go, but where and when you show. Lately this delicate and gentle object has become the objection of unruly, cowardly and some barbaric women who believe that sexual supremacy can be achieved by Burning Bras. Well Attila the Hun, Nadir Shah who destroyed art and civilization had the same philosophy I guess. I want to someday write a book called, "Bonfires and Bras," which follows around a young, braless feminist who struggles to adopt in air conditioned rooms, as her hardened nipples cause her excess embarrassment. On growing up I realized that most women wear the wrong type of Bras. Research revealed that Bras vary between styles and manufacturers, so you really need to try on any bra before you buy it. Bras come with three sets of hooks, but when you buy it should be comfortable on the largest setting. Over time the bra will stretch, and you'll use the next two sets of hooks to tighten the fit. Washing by hand is best, but you can wash bras in a lingerie bag in the washer. Use a mild detergent, like baby shampoo, to protect the lace and elastic; regular detergent is too harsh. All breast tissue should rest inside the cups, and the center point between the cups should hit you in the center of your breastbone. All this yap to prove that I did study this subject.
I guess 1994 remains a holy year for all us Bra lovers, it’s when Sam and Sara Stein released the WonderBra that made sculptures out of sagging breasts and boring socialites. Nowadays the shy and sensitive white Bra that revealed itself demurely on rain soaked actresses has become nonexistent and women nowadays are coming out of the closet Bra-wise speaking. Bras are now more loud, flashy, colourful, vivid and some really cheap (plastic straps). It is chic if your Bra strap shows provided your are wearing the right brand. Something that can’t be said when your Calvin Klein vests peek out of your Golf Tees. Bras are also becoming nefariously deceitful (Padded Bra) that can create havoc on revelation to lover’s expectation. Companies like Veronica’s Closet, Naomis, Nordstorms have made Bras more organized with optimum storage spaces and can surpass the GDP of Bangladesh. The revolution Mary Phelps Jacobs had started had really come a long way and men’s vests are nowhere to be seen artistically, sinfully, immorally and sexually. But nevertheless I love them and if I could ever be reincarnated as a fabric, I would come back as a 38 double-D bra.