What else can I write, when the evening sets in?
The wintry old road, whispers to my soul-
Gather round the fire, there are
Stories to be told.

What else can I think, if the sky shouldn't sing?
I think I am getting old,
Like the wintry old road.

Like pebbles and mud and water and rust,
There would be time for-
Rebirth and trust,
And hope, I guess...
    But, What else can I think when the evening sets in?
I  think I am old,
    Like an anthem for a sin.

The days and the places,
Are numbered my friend.
The grass, the green
The gorging delight...

All like a bubble might vanish one day-
And What else can I feel and write what may...

I must treat the night with care,
With love, with patience and
With delight if I dare.

Since the pain would recede to the grounds, you see-
   And What else can I think when I am contained to be free?

I wouldn't be proud, and deaf to the
Tones of gloom and of death,
   But what else can I write if the evening rejects?

A man must die.
Every evening at eight.
When he sips the coffee with,
Hot chocolate cake.

Whatever is begotten,
      Born and dies.

But A woman is not,
And I'll show you why.

A woman must be,
A picturesque deity,
Giving and taking all the
Evening in her.

The harmony, the health,
The warmest of thoughts.
A woman's a farmer
Every evening at eight.

Watching the steam,
And taking within,
The fetish of hate,
Every evening at eight.

Makes her a woman,
Who isn't born to be great.
But kind and mild,
And As timid as a cow.

A woman never dies,
For she is never loved.

Since she is born to witness
A death.
And, A man is a member of a community,
Of men.

Practising a composition,
To produce hatred.

   Every evening at eight,
With hot chocolate cake.

An Apple a day,
Can keep the innocence away.

Can you define, define?

Can you hate, hatred?

Can you lose, what is lost?

Can you ******, upon trust?

Can you water your wants?

Can you review your rants?

Can you define, elaborate?

Can you hate, hatred?

We'll begin with a box, the plural is boxes.
But the plural of ox is oxen, not oxes!
One fowl is a goose, and two are called geese,
Yet the plural of moose is never called meese.

You may find a lone mouse, or a house full of mice-
But the plural of house is houses, not hice!
The plural of man is always men,
But the plural of pan is never pen-

If I speak of a foot and you show me two feet,
And I give you a book, would a pair be a beek?
If one is a tooth and a whole set are teeth,
Why shouldn't two booths be called beeth?

If the singular's this and the plural is these-
Should the plural of kiss be ever called keese?

We speak of a brother and also of brethren-
But though we say mother, we never say methren;
Then the masculine pronouns are he, his, and him-
Now imagine the feminine- She- Shis and-Shim>

~ Anonymous.

"Existence is but a deception," thinks Mister Sen,
"a ***** little lie, a junkyard of loss created by all men."
With cellophane dreams in restless hearts,
Mister Sen contemplates "to- comprehend, this or that."
"But everything is as zero as good,
and all are as one as bad."
Mister Sen thinks to himself, "I ain't no ***** little rat..."

Thus he walked out, and right on to the door, and,
With fancy biggy dreams,
stopped once or maybe twice to check out the store,
A store of books which sold fiction and all those upon a time, just at once,
Mister Sen, therein and herein, thought of having a slightly furtive glance.

He has read a lot of Sartre, Beauvoir, and Gilles,
He has read of Toni Morrison, The bluest eye,
But he has never read of himself on any given day,
He has never read of himself within any story to say.

Thus Mister Sen thought to himself-
"I am all old and a bit too shy to be told, maybe...
In any drama or an in any such way, to be too fictitiously wavy,
Existence is but a deception, and a ***** little lie,
Even in fiction and philosophy, I Don't have any right to look
around with my eye,
Why won't I have a chance to say any goodbye?"

He walked home, all cold and tired, and all,
With nothing in the world which seemed to be so good as true,
Mister Sen but never thought of himself,
That he was a story, combined to form a million things, untrue.

Mister Sen, Well this one's for you!
"It was all in the cold winter air,
Where all the answers blew, They were all really blue,
Dreamy And wavy like scented flowers at night and bright,
Bright as white and pearly glow,
Mister Sen They were all really blue,
To be honest at heart, they were, Meant to be only for you."

Mister Sen,  this one is for you!

It was all in the cold winter air,
Where all the answers blew

In a classroom of twenty or more,
The teacher walks in with a thought of pride,
"I am here," She thinks to herself,
And we all stand to wish, "Good Morning".

The Teacher teaches Literature,
The Teacher is a lady of fifty-five,
The teacher walks in every day,
With a lot of pride, especially on Saturdays.

She prepares the lesson plans,
Fused with the state as to what is to be taught,
As to what is to be reasoned, and what is to be asked,
She teaches all students who belong to a class.

She addresses the students, calling names and more,
Talks in all platitudes, and looks down upon the floor,
She teaches all students, about romantic outbursts,
She praises Keats and Tagore, but not Beckett or Hurst.

But one fine Monday, there was he,
A Cherry Little boy, Big eyed, Twenty three,
Asked a question about false nationhood or so,
She was a teacher with a lot of pride, as you know...

With a thought of tasty theories, and elitism in mind,
She bashed and washed him down into the drain,
As to not him, but his hopes were drowned,
And this is how the teacher throttled "The Questions,
Which were all around...."

But In a classroom of twenty or more,
'These' students never fail to follow,
'The' teacher walks in every day,
And usually, teaches Literature, on endless Saturdays!
She teaches approaches and Literature, on Saturdays.

Gone are the days,
Of disobedience and innocence.
Gone are the days of, an-
Instrumental violence.

  Morning to the silky soul,
And to the shadowing shades of impermanence.
Morning to the dewy doses,
Of painting all accidents.

Long out to the zenith,
Of red bridges, and bluish seas,
Like a rolling stone troubled all alone,
To Bleed a maze of moss and broken violins.

But a mundane mourning for the silky soul,
And there are,
Some adjectives to condole.

These parts of an analogous appearance,
And moving along with,
some blessed rings of smoke,
A glassy, grassy stairway to the Vincent skies,
To the blinky stars, and stormy tales,
Moving alone,
But All alone, with fairy grooves and blooming dales!

An old picture for an old room.
An old song for an old day.
A visit to the other ways of looking back at time.

Sweet sensations, bitter sweet blood,
Rosemary and thyme.

Fair and lovely.

No I am black and ugly!

Oh! Sure you are? What does the law say?

I listen to the vagabond winds, which barks at the youth of the bay.

Sunset? Glimpses of eternal youth?

Keep your gratitude!

I am the landscape of a lie, what does the law say?

Young and human at any given day.

Drink the bottle of law!

Ceaseless motion, see saw!

Discord you mean?

Black as a cat, ugly and thin!

I would rather call you- anything!

Donkey loves to eat all grass,
Donkey loves to chalk out plans.
Doggy wants to beat em up,
Colonia'h eyes wide shut!

Ratty steals and shines like gold,
Donkey loves to work for free,
Doggy wants to beat em up,
'Contradictions' come n see.

Lambie takes all sinners good,
Lambie tastes like good ole food,
Doggy eats them with all pride,
'Mythology, you may write.

Birdie drinkin' seedy tales,
Birdie talkin' insurance,
Lizzy breaks all vertebrates,
Doggy has got hate in tails.

Sweaty donkey works all day,
Ratty gives him no such pay,
Doggy loves to beat em up,
'*******' shout and say.

Donkey needs no birdie tales,
Shout n say. Shout n say!

I scream to have *** with time,
A morning brings a contradiction in terms,
In between the other and all forces of allusive virtues,
The style awaits for an arrogance to bloom!

"Esther, I cannot say this,
Over the telephone"
"Why not? Is there something wrong?"
"Nope Esther no, there's nothing as such..."
Thinks to himself for a moment,
"You are perhaps the most beautiful song......"

"Hello you there?"
"Yes Esther, I had been wondering,
A cup of coffee, after work? Tomorrow?"
But all Esthers belong to the reader as you know.

And then again-" a okay would have been fine"
But he was out of balance, and you are
Reading a disconnected line.

And he needs Esther, Like hot chocolate and coffee,
But, The reader wants to know the music in between,
Mystical mysterious and it was a metaphysical time,
Connection is not always, a phenomenological rhyme.

"Hello Esther? You still there?"

"Nay,....,
I gotta go, but not tomorrow,
Maybe another time?"

The cars blinked in silence, with patience as a plan,
And, The roads were wet with water and wind,
The desires remained inside the buttons of the phone,
With memories and massacres, he went back home.

The reader, and Esther was now but nothing more than a lot less than few,
Endings perhaps never end with raindrops and dew.

And as, He laughed in a cage of a wondrous retreat,
He thought to help himself-" we are all but here to celebrate defeat. "

"Wake up in the morning,
and go for a jog," said the doctor over the phone.

"Okay Sure and Anything else Sir?"- I pretended to try.
"Oh yes cut out sugar and whiskey and rye...
Don't eat mutton, stay away from those chops and cheese...”

And I thought to myself "Yeah, why, thank you,
I need more sleep and crates of ice cream if you please?"
I thought again-
"Yeah, maybe, maybe I am fat, and have high blood pressure, and all-
But the doctor doesn't understand,
about the beauty of leisure at all!"

"I am lazy, and I don't like work,
Please, one more pizza? Burp...”

But then I think about living with life,
moving on, going on, all yo! these things,
this and that, and stripes of hate on an existential being?

The world’s a meeting room adorned with smelling salts and meds,
the doctor yet again continued:
"you should exercise every day, as it is said."

But I am lazy you see,
as lazy as a snail,
And, to be honest? I need more cream and cheese,
While watching TV and biting off my nails.

The doctor kept on saying about-"happiness and endorphins and love..."
And all I was but thinking-" Then, Why did God create Pizza, with love from up above?"

And I did put down the phone,
ordered another meal, so-called food.
You see, I was happy with life,
and was ready to seize the meaning, of being better than good!

In brief description is an illusion,
Everything floats.

I am born in a poor country,
in a poor society, with a poor soul,
In a poor family, with diminished hopes of seeing the world.

But I am Icarus, and by 28
I would be rich, so ******* rich,
that I would hardly be able to count all the money.

I do not know how, or why, but-
I would be rich and young and beautiful as Nixon or Reagan, or Trump,
And, I would dream on. I would be here and over there, and everywhere,
For whatever it takes, to triumph over the world!

And thus the body decides to give flashes to these fleshy thoughts,
He reads newspapers and books and propagandas, which are hot,
He believes to make a difference in this world of men,
He hopes to try beyond the screen of hopelessness again.

But, These are just rantings of a beautiful mind,
Trapped in the vestibule of wriggling nets of upbeat thoughts,
And if he succeeds, he would be Icarus, someday,
Or if he doesn't he would be a candle to be burnt and charred away.

And you read and judge all poems and points,
For, The world moves between just these two paradoxes of choice.
Of virtues and vice, and to limit oneself within the membranes of such an obsessive noise.

For, The world but moves between these two points.

But I would love to die young and rich,
Before I sleep like an use less snitch.

I have eyes. Two eyes.
I have thoughts.
Thoughts, many thoughts.

I sleep, I repeat.
I begin to shine.

I add sweetness in my days.

"Please stop, please, would you?
Can't you see that my son is in pain?"
Cried the mother aloud, with resounding hopes of seeing the doctor
Again.

The doctor a year older than thirty two, says-
"He Is a patient without any patience, its true,
Your son is baffled and a catatonic mass..."
The mother cried aloud-" please doctor, o doctor help us....!"

He sits down at the desk, checks his pulse,
His cheek, his bones, his eyes at last,
"Catatonic, catatonic" he murmurs twice,
Says to the mother about "being encephalitic, which is as cold as ice..."

The mother nods to almost everything he says,
Takes the prescription, gives his pay,
Goes out to the booth, to fill up the form,
Thinks to herself, "my son would be really well someday."

"With newer meds, He would talk like how grown ups do,
He would write stories about his aunt Mary too,
She is still alive, loves him very much,
Perhaps he would be just fine, by the next lunch at home?
Perhaps no one would be no longer be alone anymore?
Perhaps at home? With everyone together?
Perhaps with everyone back at home, helter skelter?"

Months go by, the doctor, Mr Sacks,
Discovered a new medic, which carried the potency to release the germ,
He treated it on his patient Leonard Lowe,
Within an hour, he became a man, as creative as god can be.

Months and months added up to a year,
Leonard has now somehow, recovered himself into a well bred man,
But, as awakenings come, god keeps all other plans, at bay..

God is not chemistry, that can be studied at hand.

With Side effects, and more, he now became paranoid,
His head moved and shivered, his eyes now continued to toy,
He received a awakening from an awful dream,
He now received paranoia from his newer medicines.

Lowe was really well for a summer, he tasted ice creams,
Lowe was really well for a summer, he drew a painting,
A painting of what simple chemistry can do,
A painting that all doctors can never be true.

His mother was still crying aloud with resounding hopes to see the doctor again,
She was screaming, helplessly " please stop, would you?
Don't you see that my son is in pain?"

Since the doctor said-" that awakenings are once and can never be said"
The doctor went to the other chamber,
That evening, "to read a story again,
Which he perhaps, never read."

Chemistry, it can never be said.
Chemistry, is but an awful arrangement of certain probabilities in sets.

The mother was still screaming-"don't you see that my son is in pain?"
For, Leonard Lowe has now become catatonic again.

Dream Like an idiot,
Dance like a goat.
Deep like a wound,
The future's present ghost.

There was a young man named Bright
Who- traversed faster, with colors-
Heat, cold and light.
He set out one day,
in a relative way...
And returned on the previous night.

An airless wind- he turned it super cool-
He stretched out to measure,
the chalky fingerprints of Death,
He took a chain, however long,
He made it straight, however tight,
Against the teeth of gravity and weight.

Vibrating Anger danced within the wisdom of Dark-
Over bellowing waves and ineffable foam,
to create tiny curled membranes of orbits.
How flimsy, feeble and fragile it seemed-
His yolk of thoughts screamed like a shower of shooting stars.

The geometry of winter sailed through-
the ponderingly wondrous locus of infinity.
There were those rushing waves-
mountains which roared of thunderous shrieks,
And, Ages on ages on a dead planet.

Then Came one Summer,
swelling with the pleasures of a velocity.
Which outshone the loss of fallen leaves,
And he-
sprayed iron and salt onto the light.

He became a young man named Bright-
who whistled in wonder to swallow the lake of dreams,
and overturning all its jars,
like a feeble fevered coiled ghost,
he vanished!

A body needs a soul.
The flower blooms at dawn.
The motion hides a force,
A jumbled overdose.

"Between one and infinity,
I have always cherished the desire to free."

"An artist you mean? You mean philosophy?"

"Nope, but a wage laborer, working in a manufacturing industry?"

"Ha! There you made the point, friend,
Welcome to reality!"

"Anything else? Or should I just go?"

"You're living high, and moving slow."

"I mean, you know! anything else you want to analyze?"

"Nope you can leave your memories, just remember to never be an artist, that's it! Goodbyes"

"You see, Stars can never hide their fires,
For, An artist can never die with wild and deep desires. Goodbye mr.heckles! See you tomorrow!"

"Okay, it's late you must now go, you're getting late for the word salad!"

Moves out to the window, stares at the wall to burn his shelf of selfs!

Cut.

"I am an addict.''

"What do you take?"

"Not ****** or marijuana.
Or even alcohol or acid."

" O that's awkward..."

"No I mean, I am addicted to Reality."

"As in?..."

"I expect. I dare to communicate."

"What do you write? Poetry?" asked the teacher,
Impatiently.
And he continued-"Why ain't you trying anything else?"
Well, I was baffled, and I thought-" I write,
Poetry, Yes it doesn't sell."
"I know that"-That's what I said.

For a moment he glared at my hands
and looked around for something more,
He was staring at the broken walls and the memories,
of vicissitudes, which were scattered all over the floor.

He resumed again with an essence of pride,
acquired in taste- "what else do you do?
Don't you like playing games?
Boys of your age, go the field and takes up a batter,
with bowling techniques..."

I was baffled again, thinking to myself-
"More Poetry? Please?"

But I was silent on my lips, as my thoughts were shy,
I told to the teacher-"Yeah Cricket, I might try."

He lost the art of conversing in a rhyme-
And he exclaimed, dolefully-"Try Poetry, maybe another time."

And all I was but thinking was about this thought,
I know I don't sell propagandas which might seem to be hot.

And, he left the chair, the class was but over,
I thought "to make an attempt to creativity,
Which is both acceptable and sober?"

And Like all other days, the birds were all chirping,
The engines were roaring, and the sky as casting the bluest shade,
But, you see,
I write poetry which kisses the butter with a blessed blade.

I write poetry, I try to do so,
Scripts of screaming tales which you might not even know.

Trouble, would you come to me?
I have high hopes for you to see,
That I have failed a few times,
Which is partly true, and partly fiction.

Trouble, would you be my walking contradiction?

Trouble, would you come to me?
I have empty pockets and heartbreaks,
But I do have high hopes of defeating thee.

Trouble, as far as I can see, With my polished eyes, I'll be-
I'll be a painting in the wind,
And, A cherry monkey in a sanctuary.

Trouble, please stay there in ageless time,
with thoughts of breaking my skull, and I would be in pain!

Trouble, But I assure you,
I would fail again and fail better,
And I would rise again from the charred and burnt ashes,
Since the Fighter still remains.

Trouble, I ain't leaving, No I ain't,
But, I am ready to erase these stains.

Trouble, For you the trouble is,
The Boxer still remains.

Cut your nails and brush your teeth,
Eat your food, and take your seat,
Check your box, and fix those knots,
Clean your shoes, and pull up your socks.

Read your books and play at 4,
Park that parachute of fooleries,
Receive a hug from ye, mother at nine,
Little miss kid, you're doing just fine.

Here and there a mischief or four,
Break your sister's mascara box,
Eat some biscuits and chocolates,
Bless you kid, that's innocence.

Once you grow, and groups and gags,
Farces comedies would relapse,
Tragedy harpers the bazaar of rust,
Bless you kid, never get old!

Young and free and meek and mild,
Cleans my soul and I can smile.

My fancies are bitter flies,
Sparks of looming light,
Twinkling in the dark.

My fancies are Drowsy evenings,
Which echoes the silence of a careless glance,
To soak up the pleasures,
Of disobedient thoughts.

The bindings of love has grown such filmy wings,
And took a farewell flight,
Into the sunset sky.

Now I thus leap,
into the darker caves of the mind.

These scatterings of memories, Flower,
But, for the moment's whim.

And the fallen leaves of confusion,
swollen with hope, rides on the canvas of winged surprises!

To dance alone, all but alone,
With the illuminations of catatonic bubbles,
and with illusions,
Of Beautiful Shadows.

And, I float on the surface of colorless nights,
With all allusions to the shrine of the dead past.

From the solemn gloom of numberless days,
The staccato of memories fritters like secret stars,
Wishing to hearten a timid lamp.

But the sky seeks slaves and claims obedience,
From the mysteries of ageless time.

But, as you see,
My fancies have always been Fireflies,
And, Scripts of screaming tales,
Which would be Written on dust with flowers and scars.

My fancies 'are' fire flies,
Specks of Troubled light,
Twinkling in the dark.

দূর এর কোনো মধুর বাঁশি,
সন্ধে বেলা বাজে,
নিথর নীরব তুলসী তলা,
মন লাগে না কাজে.

দূর এর কোনো ঝাপসা আলো,
সন্ধে তারা জলে,
এমন হটাৎ হতেই পারে-
থমকে যাওয়ার ফলে.

দুয়ার ভাঙে, শরৎ কেটে,
ঠান্ডা বরফ আগুন,
আগুন চোটে নিজের মতন-
হাওয়ায় তখন ফাগুন.

দূর এর তখন মধুর বাঁশি,
ক্লান্ত মনের মাঝি..
আলো'র ঢেউ এ পাল তুলে ন্যায়,
অবাক স্মৃতির দাবি.

সময় যখন শুকিয়ে যাবে,
ঝরবে কত পাতা,
তখন দূর এর মধুর বাঁশি,
আঁকবে রং এর খাতা.

সন্ধ্যা হলো, মধুর বাঁশি,
মন লাগে না কাজে,
দূর এর কোনো মধুর বাঁশি,
সন্ধে বেলাই বাজে...