Subhadip - Hello Poetry

The fragile moon and the tender heart The soft bells of the Cathedral The remnants of a sound from a poem of Rimbaud The fire within the chest, the belly , and the dreams Far across the age of reason and nausea crossed existence of an artist I still experiment with my thoughts and adventures An inheritance runs in the blood Of a reincarnated Rilke Camus or Sartre Hunger, ****** and a lot of poverty No food No women No money Death , sacrilege and seduction The obsession with Second *** The flowing Seine on the edge of Retreating Nemesis I burn myself In the candle lit Hymns Of an Ancient Parisian prayer.

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Sep 21, 2024

Sep 21, 2024 at 5:39 AM UTC

Retreating Nemesis or an Ancient Parisian Prayer:

The fragile moon and the tender heart The soft bells of the Cathedral The remnants of a sound from a poem of Rimbaud The fire within the chest, the belly , and the dreams Far across the age of reason and nausea crossed existence of an artist I still experiment with my thoughts and adventures An inheritance runs in the blood Of a reincarnated Rilke Camus or Sartre Hunger, ****** and a lot of poverty No food No women No money Death , sacrilege and seduction The obsession with Second *** The flowing Seine on the edge of Retreating Nemesis I burn myself In the candle lit Hymns Of an Ancient Parisian prayer.

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Each time I wake up in your arms I am a different person My troubles far away from me The nightmares never dare to touch my eyes The city sleeps along with us in the one-room bed The fluorescent advertisement of the avenue street dances on our naked bodies I wake up at midnight often and stare at you for hours As something precious has happened to me Like those highway stories I wrote while traveling with you Mixed with the smell of the dust, the wildflowers, the just blossomed cherries And you, my scent of a woman.

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Nov 4, 2020

Nov 4, 2020 at 10:44 AM UTC

Scent of a Woman :

Each time I wake up in your arms I am a different person My troubles far away from me The nightmares never dare to touch my eyes The city sleeps along with us in the one-room bed The fluorescent advertisement of the avenue street dances on our naked bodies I wake up at midnight often and stare at you for hours As something precious has happened to me Like those highway stories I wrote while traveling with you Mixed with the smell of the dust, the wildflowers, the just blossomed cherries And you, my scent of a woman.

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She is fire, even before I touch her She is crazy like an evening summer storm But in her mascara applied eyelashes, in her black eyeliner I found the calm deep ocean I stand beneath them and breathe. She is a river, in white, short skirt With beautiful legs, With the red scarf, symbolizing every inch of her poetic grace Any man's heart can stop looking at her I look at her in amazement as she brought with her My lost poem of youth. Her neckline, studded with ruby beads and junk jewelry that matches with her shiny black hair, Tumbles down through the valley of unannounced sanctity and wild desire Before her eyes, fell on me. She nibbled an apple, half And threw it in the basket I stare at the darkness of the basket, the fallen apple, and then again at the light on her face We both trembled, shivered We stand there, as it is, She in the magnificent exuberance of her youth And me, in shy appreciations At one time, I walk away Gifting her all those pages of the poem, with blessings But, woman, I have inherited your beauty forever in me!

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Sep 19, 2020

Sep 19, 2020 at 4:17 PM UTC

She is fire, even before I touch her

She is fire, even before I touch her She is crazy like an evening summer storm But in her mascara applied eyelashes, in her black eyeliner I found the calm deep ocean I stand beneath them and breathe. She is a river, in white, short skirt With beautiful legs, With the red scarf, symbolizing every inch of her poetic grace Any man's heart can stop looking at her I look at her in amazement as she brought with her My lost poem of youth. Her neckline, studded with ruby beads and junk jewelry that matches with her shiny black hair, Tumbles down through the valley of unannounced sanctity and wild desire Before her eyes, fell on me. She nibbled an apple, half And threw it in the basket I stare at the darkness of the basket, the fallen apple, and then again at the light on her face We both trembled, shivered We stand there, as it is, She in the magnificent exuberance of her youth And me, in shy appreciations At one time, I walk away Gifting her all those pages of the poem, with blessings But, woman, I have inherited your beauty forever in me!

24

I have in me a bit of Tuscan sun The wildness of mistral The calmness of a Cezanne village I often walk around the countryside of Pissaro And see the colors, still abundant, undefeated I stroll around the lilies and the harbor of France where Manet painted being thrown out of his house, not able to pay the rent I dance with the beautiful girls in high society Parisian parties of whom from Zola to Maugham spoke about I learn art in silence, in the bright orange color of the day drawing the French young girl Whose face is like Madonna Her innocence, her laughter, her flawless body Excite me, breaks me, creates me I walk with clean head and red wine in the streets of Montmartre Searching the gone and dusted studio of Renoir, Picasso, Monet I stand exactly there where there is nothing old except the moon And the Sacre Couer In the morning I take the first train to Auvers Sur Oise And walk into the cemetery Where lie in the gorgeous French sun Vincent and Theo Van Gogh I utter to them, "Can dream ever be false?" It is when I heard the footsteps I turned The girl in the yellow dress stands at the gate of the cemetery Whom I draw every day but never captured her beauty The French girl We both stand there as it is As if framed paused Frozen We, the Impressionists!

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Aug 8, 2020

Aug 8, 2020 at 8:45 AM UTC

We, the Impressionists

I have in me a bit of Tuscan sun The wildness of mistral The calmness of a Cezanne village I often walk around the countryside of Pissaro And see the colors, still abundant, undefeated I stroll around the lilies and the harbor of France where Manet painted being thrown out of his house, not able to pay the rent I dance with the beautiful girls in high society Parisian parties of whom from Zola to Maugham spoke about I learn art in silence, in the bright orange color of the day drawing the French young girl Whose face is like Madonna Her innocence, her laughter, her flawless body Excite me, breaks me, creates me I walk with clean head and red wine in the streets of Montmartre Searching the gone and dusted studio of Renoir, Picasso, Monet I stand exactly there where there is nothing old except the moon And the Sacre Couer In the morning I take the first train to Auvers Sur Oise And walk into the cemetery Where lie in the gorgeous French sun Vincent and Theo Van Gogh I utter to them, "Can dream ever be false?" It is when I heard the footsteps I turned The girl in the yellow dress stands at the gate of the cemetery Whom I draw every day but never captured her beauty The French girl We both stand there as it is As if framed paused Frozen We, the Impressionists!

31

The more I undress you The more you are in light As the half-burnt moon come out from the clouds It fell on your rising ******* in my hand Then slide across the undulations Down to the river From where rises the gypsy madness and the wild smell of a primitive surrender Oracles are born then I can hear them, even you As we make love In our body dances The Mediterranean wine.

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Jun 13, 2020

Jun 13, 2020 at 6:33 AM UTC

The Mediterranean Wine

The more I undress you The more you are in light As the half-burnt moon come out from the clouds It fell on your rising ******* in my hand Then slide across the undulations Down to the river From where rises the gypsy madness and the wild smell of a primitive surrender Oracles are born then I can hear them, even you As we make love In our body dances The Mediterranean wine.

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Woman, yet we spent thousand nights of Heart Stopping Blood Rushing Love in sacred moonlight We spent the first norwester from the balcony of our yellow college We sat in half dark college room with excitement in eyes waiting for the first rain We stand together in one umbrella in the storm, soon it flew and we held each other with the falling flowers kissing us We ran through the pavement of slippery cement, with our hands tight in each other We reached the bus stop and in the first blue lightning We both scared, nervous but laughed! Woman, we took the metro ride in the horribly hot summer Sweat gathered like pearls on your forehead We walked through the Presidency College and then to the Coffee House The scent of books everywhere And the thud of our heartbeat loud enough To embarrass us Until we found the corner table When on the wall the golden sun fell like a sculpture of Michael Angelo As if a curtain removed, as if a moment of no return And everything changed. Woman, I never say I am perfect Neither are you We loved like as if there is no tomorrow Perhaps there never was Yet we loved we sang we wrote secret letters fragrant of pregnant clouds with rain We met in incredible places, below a lamppost, near a Kachori shop, outside the green door of your house A bus stop with hundred people waiting, in alleys of book shops and call of the hawkers The walk through the forgotten roads, in Puja Mandapas, through rail crossings We were so young we never thought of bodies Until that orange afternoon when you Gave me your first kiss. We were so pure that we were cursed You often said that, and our dreams always danced around the Eutopia of nothingness We thought of a Ulysses within us Which exist nowhere Until our love became so intense that fire rose And we both burnt altogether in that fire Yet we live all alone In different cities Different world But at midnight often we look at our naked bodies with the touches with the scars still painted like brushstrokes of Van Gogh We smile then Like in silence, the lovers do.

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Jun 10, 2020

Jun 10, 2020 at 1:38 PM UTC

From the Balcony of Our Yellow College :

Woman, yet we spent thousand nights of Heart Stopping Blood Rushing Love in sacred moonlight We spent the first norwester from the balcony of our yellow college We sat in half dark college room with excitement in eyes waiting for the first rain We stand together in one umbrella in the storm, soon it flew and we held each other with the falling flowers kissing us We ran through the pavement of slippery cement, with our hands tight in each other We reached the bus stop and in the first blue lightning We both scared, nervous but laughed! Woman, we took the metro ride in the horribly hot summer Sweat gathered like pearls on your forehead We walked through the Presidency College and then to the Coffee House The scent of books everywhere And the thud of our heartbeat loud enough To embarrass us Until we found the corner table When on the wall the golden sun fell like a sculpture of Michael Angelo As if a curtain removed, as if a moment of no return And everything changed. Woman, I never say I am perfect Neither are you We loved like as if there is no tomorrow Perhaps there never was Yet we loved we sang we wrote secret letters fragrant of pregnant clouds with rain We met in incredible places, below a lamppost, near a Kachori shop, outside the green door of your house A bus stop with hundred people waiting, in alleys of book shops and call of the hawkers The walk through the forgotten roads, in Puja Mandapas, through rail crossings We were so young we never thought of bodies Until that orange afternoon when you Gave me your first kiss. We were so pure that we were cursed You often said that, and our dreams always danced around the Eutopia of nothingness We thought of a Ulysses within us Which exist nowhere Until our love became so intense that fire rose And we both burnt altogether in that fire Yet we live all alone In different cities Different world But at midnight often we look at our naked bodies with the touches with the scars still painted like brushstrokes of Van Gogh We smile then Like in silence, the lovers do.

41

We dance on the glass prisms Below us burns the fire The flick of a romance or love on the edge A half open door...death or life? I never understand the world The reality where we live It's like a crooked satire or a hallucination of walking bodies Before they have erased all memories Of their own faces. But those who deny forgetting their own faces And look at the mirror every day, See age crawling through the naked bodies A man and a woman in bed..then their warm skin at midnight on the brink of extinguished immortality. Poetry comes to me in those moments Of laughter, of a feeling after love making An emptiness, a desolation yet hunger for everything That is when beyond our dreams our shadow comes and dance On the prisms. Like Pygmalion, I create my own woman of beauty in silence.

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Jun 5, 2020

Jun 5, 2020 at 10:46 AM UTC

Pygmalion (Courtsey : Bernard Shaw)

We dance on the glass prisms Below us burns the fire The flick of a romance or love on the edge A half open door...death or life? I never understand the world The reality where we live It's like a crooked satire or a hallucination of walking bodies Before they have erased all memories Of their own faces. But those who deny forgetting their own faces And look at the mirror every day, See age crawling through the naked bodies A man and a woman in bed..then their warm skin at midnight on the brink of extinguished immortality. Poetry comes to me in those moments Of laughter, of a feeling after love making An emptiness, a desolation yet hunger for everything That is when beyond our dreams our shadow comes and dance On the prisms. Like Pygmalion, I create my own woman of beauty in silence.

19

As I lie down on my bed I saw you pushing the half-closed door and entering You wore a red saree You are as gorgeous as ever Sacred like a temple in the dawn Like a woman who has bathed in night dew Someone who knows everything about me and yet come to know me from the very beginning The old door swings in the air I can see your face as calm as neat as clean Like the moon outside shining Let it be cliche, but today it is truly a full moon night I cannot say what I wanted to say you Everything has been dusted in time How do you find the old address of an expatriate? The yellow envelopes and the red-inked words must have turned blue now Once I sent within them the clouds Which kissed you as rain You in red saree stare at me Ah! Is it really you? Or it is all a surreal magic of hallucination But at that moment you sat beside me on the bed and kissed me deeply And whisper in my ear Like a fairy tale told thousand nights ago, "You still smell the same? And me?" The last tram of the night goes through On the empty tracks now lay, love.

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Apr 21, 2020

Apr 21, 2020 at 2:57 PM UTC

Across the tram lines, lay love

As I lie down on my bed I saw you pushing the half-closed door and entering You wore a red saree You are as gorgeous as ever Sacred like a temple in the dawn Like a woman who has bathed in night dew Someone who knows everything about me and yet come to know me from the very beginning The old door swings in the air I can see your face as calm as neat as clean Like the moon outside shining Let it be cliche, but today it is truly a full moon night I cannot say what I wanted to say you Everything has been dusted in time How do you find the old address of an expatriate? The yellow envelopes and the red-inked words must have turned blue now Once I sent within them the clouds Which kissed you as rain You in red saree stare at me Ah! Is it really you? Or it is all a surreal magic of hallucination But at that moment you sat beside me on the bed and kissed me deeply And whisper in my ear Like a fairy tale told thousand nights ago, "You still smell the same? And me?" The last tram of the night goes through On the empty tracks now lay, love.

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