subhanjan-saha
I am inspiration. / / / A flower seen. The wind heard. / The song-filled flight of a passing bird. / The coldness of the winter moon. / The sound of a distant tune. / People met, a smiling face. / / / I am all around. Hear me. / Observe my significantly insignificant existence.
The receding horizon,
The fading light of day,
Azure taking a livid hue.
Pokhran's hot, scorching sand,
A lash on our moribund logic.
Death and Life, Life and Death-
Religion and Atheism, Nobel and Booker,
Make us proud and shiver,
Make us happy, rob us of gaiety,
Shoot all our fragile hopes to artistic acme.
Smash all our favourite dreams to smithereens.
The Ganga meanders amidst a maze of
Ripples, crest and trough-
With a dour askance,
With a nonsensical exterior,
At the dead of night,
The hoary-headed ***** rises,
To take stock of pelf,
He keeps in hiding,
Looka yonder, the man with a rice plate in his shack
Stirs out of his lumber, in a jiffy,
Dawns cracks, leaves rustle, breezes whistles,
The nightingale still chirps coo, coo, coo....
Breaking the calm of a nostalgic daybreak.
Love buffoonery, antics of sweet urchin,
Effrontery, betrayal, self-destructive urge,
Blinds love toting niggling details of despair
In it's womb.
A silver of modernism, none can deny,
Gleaning the core of every 'ism' in it's *****
Roads, alleys crisscross, end of tunnel seems dark.
At least, a hairpin bend,
Across the debris of a fresh landslide,
A ray of hope, a shaft of optimism,
A changed universe, a reclaimed Utopia.
Coming true!
-Subhanjan Saha
Dec 15, 2014
Dec 15, 2014 at 2:05 AM UTC
The poet writes not what he sees.
He writes what he wished he could see.
There's a subtle difference.
All his poems art utter trash.
in the world so heartlessly practical.
For his vision is as convoluted as his wishes.
I wish I was a poet
to be able to view the world through a prism.
But I'm not.
So I have to make do with second best.
What is reality?
That which hurts
That is pain?
That which is sublime.
What is love?
That which hurts most.
What is fear?
That which degrades.
What is greed?
That which dehumanizes.
What is hurt?
That which is caused by love.
So many questions, so many answers.
I write what I feel.
That's why I'm am not a poet.
For a poet peers through his prism
and thanks his stars for seeing a rainbow.
-Subhanjan Saha
Dec 15, 2014
Dec 15, 2014 at 2:04 AM UTC
The receding horizon,
The fading light of day,
Azure taking a livid hue.
Pokhran's hot, scorching sand,
A lash on our moribund logic.
Death and Life, Life and Death-
Religion and Atheism, Nobel and Booker,
Make us proud and shiver,
Make us happy, rob us of gaiety,
Shoot all our fragile hopes to artistic acme.
Smash all our favourite dreams to smithereens.
The Ganga meanders amidst a maze of
Ripples, crest and trough-
With a dour askance,
With a nonsensical exterior,
At the dead of night,
The hoary-headed ***** rises,
To take stock of pelf,
He keeps in hiding,
Looka yonder, the man with a rice plate in his shack
Stirs out of his lumber, in a jiffy,
Dawns cracks, leaves rustle, breezes whistles,
The nightingale still chirps coo, coo, coo....
Breaking the calm of a nostalgic daybreak.
Love buffoonery, antics of sweet urchin,
Effrontery, betrayal, self-destructive urge,
Blinds love toting niggling details of despair
In it's womb.
A silver of modernism, none can deny,
Gleaning the core of every 'ism' in it's *****
Roads, alleys crisscross, end of tunnel seems dark.
At least, a hairpin bend,
Across the debris of a fresh landslide,
A ray of hope, a shaft of optimism,
A changed universe, a reclaimed Utopia.
Coming true!
-Subhanjan Saha
Nov 15, 2014
Nov 15, 2014 at 1:41 PM UTC
A staircase to seemingly nowhere.
I grasp the railing with my mind
And struggle upwards to somewhere.
Misshapen and misbegotten words plague me.
Keep your eyes straight ahead and upwards
Do not look back! Do not look down!
Lest I plunge again into the darkness.
God and love stand at the top and beckon.
Struggle on! Struggle on!
In your writing you will be set free.
In my writing I have indeed done so.
A staircase is only a temporary brother.
Fodder for the pen and mind.
But nothing to be feared,
It's risers raises me upwards.
Jun 11, 2014
Jun 11, 2014 at 1:44 AM UTC
Without a suitable rival, the sad brigade lingers
Conscripts for an unpopular and non-believable cause.
After a drawback, the sober war machine parades.
The collective forces mimics a ploy of belligerence
The transient atmosphere moans a superfluous order.
A wit decides a banner epic for its backlog to dictate
In the ***** populace there waves circular innocence.
The twisted ranks value the immediate imperative
This sudden attitude dresses into a signature.
And a written tragic script obscures their pain.
While the reluctant ones wait for peace to break out.
Jun 11, 2014
Jun 11, 2014 at 1:40 AM UTC
Match, match forward and go, you heroic sons of America
Reconnoiter into the strongholds of boko haram,
And restore our captive girls from the foul custody,
Lawlessly held hostage by the connoisseurs of terror,
Go on and recover poor souls from ribald of religion
Impishly created by Moslem from the satanic verses,
Regulating foray of terror on the poor of the poor
****** mahyeming, looting and executing massacres,
Match on and on yee angels of democracy,
Don’t stop in any haste or in any wonder,
To help in the sham flabbergastations,
About the Igbos who fought the Biafra,
And the Yorubas who federally defended,
Under the aegis of Obasanjo the Sandhurst
General, where are they all to save the girls
Of Nigeria from the Islamist terror
Excuted by boko haram the handmaid of evil.
Jun 6, 2014
Jun 6, 2014 at 1:31 PM UTC
The creative mind hovers on the verge of madness.
Like marbles tossed on a tilted table.
They roll relentlessly towards the edge.
Unlike the mad who plummet into the darkness below.
The creative are restrained by an unseen hand.
And from their table top vantage point,
They form the words to comment in verse.
On the world they see around them.
But at times their words are jumbled and strange.
One wonders if perhaps the unseen hand,
Should have allowed the marbles to be lost,
For often the babbling of the mad,
Makes more sense than the lucidity of the creative.
Jun 6, 2014
Jun 6, 2014 at 12:49 AM UTC
I thought I could easily find you,
Mild springs of this youth screamed again,
To continue, or to stop hoping, forever.
I dream of you, I easily dream of you,
And I know, you are nothing I knew before.
Soothing, your voice is leading me.
Through these decades of my youth,
And easily, oh how vividly easily,
I am losing you.
Walking or running, I dream of you.
How easily your eyes are alive in here.
To show me places I never saw
Stumbling,
But still,
Searching you.
Jun 5, 2014
Jun 5, 2014 at 4:47 AM UTC
With my eyes, I set the sun
Beaming reflection of burning fire.
No passion.
Just hate and anger.
Boiling bleeding blood vessels,
Resurrecting hidden sculls,
To announce another man's fatality.
Hatred and wickedness of the heart.
I am bringing you down.
Confusion set the state for
The neurons of my mind
Unkindness dripping-skip
Flip-kicking
Awake!
No sleeping.
Clock out of my entire system.
Forbidden desire of the soul.
I am bringing you down.
Pain painting.
Hurt? I'm hurting.
With a drip from the fountain of tears
I found myself crying.
The spell of unhappiness has been broken.
Selfish ambitions.
I am bringing you down.
Intensifying the tenacity of gravity's grip
Around the scope of my arena.
Tardiness and misfortunes.
I am bringing you down.
Like rotten branches of a tree.
I am bringing you down.
Jun 5, 2014
Jun 5, 2014 at 4:43 AM UTC
I cannot write a love poem, anymore.
Since you are gone, leaving the heart in emptiness
In places where clouds covering the moon,
My soul is also present.
Solitude of nothingness.
Do tell me, my love, how to stop the tears,
To see the sea full of pearls,
To reach the colours of spring flowers,
Because, a lifetime without you, I melt down.
I can no longer find my words to my poems,
And the rest will dissolve, in pieces of time and space.
Jun 5, 2014
Jun 5, 2014 at 4:35 AM UTC