Who, if I cried out, would hear me among the angels'
hierarchies? and even if one of them suddenly
pressed me against his heart, I would perish
in the embrace of his stronger existence.
For beauty is nothing but the beginning of terror
which we are barely able to endure and are awed
because it serenely disdains to annihilate us.
Each single angel is terrifying.
And so I force myself, swallow and hold back
the surging call of my dark sobbing.
Oh that those lips had language! Life has pass'd
With me but roughly since I heard thee last.
Those lips are thine- thy own sweet smiles I see,
The same that oft in childhood solaced me;
Voice only fails, else, how distinct they say,
'Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away! '
The meek intelligence of those dear eyes
(Blest be the art that can immortalize,
The art that baffles time's tyrannic claim
To quench it) here shines on me still the same.
I wake up cold, I who
Prospered through dreams of heat
Wake to their residue,
Sweat, and a clinging sheet.
My flesh was its own shield:
Where it was gashed, it healed.
I grew as I explored
The body I could trust
He is quick, thinking in clear images;
I am slow, thinking in broken images.
He becomes dull, trusting to his clear images;
I become sharp, mistrusting my broken images.
Trusting his images, he assumes their relevance;
Mistrusting my images, I question their relevance.
Assuming their relevance, he assumes the fact;
About the size of an old-style dollar bill,
American or Canadian,
mostly the same whites, gray greens, and steel grays
-this little painting (a sketch for a larger one?)
has never earned any money in its life.
Useless and free., it has spent seventy years
as a minor family relic handed along collaterally to owners
who looked at it sometimes, or didn't bother to.
It must be Nova Scotia; only there
Mere har gunaah ko bhool kar, main jaisa hu kubool kar
bina naqaab posh ke. Bina kisi aagosh ke
mujhe kal vida kar paoge ?
Bolo, kya tum aaoge ?
Us doobte ujaale ka, us aakhri nivaale ka
jisme intezaar baki hai, jo akela hai, na-kaafi hai
us-se wo wada nibha paoge ?
Bolo kya tum aaoge ?
Pain versus pleasure...
Pleasure versus pain...
Can the two be separate...
Or are they just one in the same...
Love without trust...
Trust without love...
Can the two be separate...
Or must they fit like a glove...
So long, those messages begone
never-ending, thoughts forgone
in a box of some chips and wires
those sore thumbs and heart's desires.
Not mind the artist
but oh-so curious of colours,
getting us to paint, a canvas, a another world
where under late moon, around talks of star's shine
those details on and about living life
I stood silently, silent as a Sunday aurora,
But my heart was speaking like a non-stop dell,
I could see an angel in the hell,
Who is demonic inside.
There was a youngling nigh her,
Who had my childhood face,
So I asked her ‘ are you gonna slay me ?’
And I stepped back a pace.
He was chewing on leftovers from the kill his father had made last night in the darkest recess of India. He was about eleven month old now. He noticed these weird creatures walking on their twos. He had never seen such creatures. This group of humans was led by someone named Jack, a man from the civilized world of England, Great Britain. Jack was a man looking for tigers for a circus. He had brought together a group of fearless men who had nothing to lose and looked optimistically at the prospect of a quick buck from the profits of acquiring a rare Bengali tigers. It all started when Jack assembled a group of men from the dregs of society, men who had not succeeded in conventional endeavors. He had this idea that he could make some money by getting some tigers to sell for profit. Amidst sips of whisky, he outlined his plan to this sad group of men, war weary members, disillusioned men who had taken to drinking to drown the reality of their failed lives. At the time, England had a network of entry into India and the world of smuggling based on India’s standing as a colony. He knew the right people who easily get him entry into acquiring these tigers, people with experience smuggling wild animals for circuses and other pleasures.
As part of the planning, they started out with the hiring of a local guide to inform them of the best route to get to the tigers. They hired a local who knew English and was very familiar with the area, as he had grown up there and spent all of his life in the same place called Sundarban. This guide, Bimal Mondal was about five foot eight, had little dark circles under his eyes, and was about thirty six years of age with dark skin that glowed almost like bronze, a square jaw with visible cheek bones, wide eyebrows making a unibrow by meeting at the top center of his broken nose, and brown hazelnut eyes. He was skinny and muscular, and looked like a spring that if you squish it together would bounce back with the force of a hopping frog.
Now Jack, on the opposite spectrum, was your typical British looking gentlemen. Years and generations of acts of bravery that ran through his lineage, whether through fighting in wars, taking on risky expeditions or even drunkenly fistfights to make money defined his character. He was honorably discharged from the army as a major, but it was a deal he couldn’t pass up on. If he left he would get everything the army could offer and if not, he would end up in circumstances he couldn’t handle on his own. And here he was, a big muscular man standing at the river bank deep in mangrove forest area with his friends. He thought back to a time not far back, just ten years ago in 1940. He had lost his family and some of his friends whom he believed were friends forever.
“Bimal, do you think we will be there by sunset?” Jack asked.
“I am sure Sir we can make it if you just let me guide you, please don’t step on my tail, is that the right expression?” Bimal replied while securing his, what he called, dingi nouko (long narrow boat) to the tree.
“Yes Bimal” Jack said with disappointment. He used to give orders and not to be given.