Since useful tends to be useless,
And the worth of it seems to be dead,
A message comes from the weather,
All things are counter, original and strange.

Light is fast, the mind is faster yet,
A cheetah seems to be the wind, but the wind
Pretends to soar.

A statue is tall, a giraffe pretends, to seek,
What's the use of a relative difference?
As the coordination repeats?

The sun is brighter, the camera records, the fact,
The Colors seem to call,
And keep all resplendence intact.

A healthy diet helps to grow, a blessing,
Does the same.
A rolling truck kills a shadow, the darkness kills a man.
The music of Mozart and the sound of rain,
Generates a good gorging delight,
The pattern of silk, and the warmth of fire,
Gives the direction to the night.

All things counter original spare strange,
Since useful tends to be useless.

'Caps' 'Lock', is ironically a key.

Far away, and far from this madding crowd,
Away, and a lot too far, To a place where all memory is dead,
And, Where silence is golden, and thoughts are but seething,
Far away, far from this litters of a latent heat, weeping.

Away to the sands and blue skies and to the seas,
Away and far from all of these falsities.
To A warm place without all burdens of hope,
And, A blessing to clean my soul, with an oily soap.

Where soils are but wet and, forgotten, the weather is withering out again,
Where there is more of love and less of pain,
And, Where there's sheep, all tender and meek,
Such a place of a complete innocence, my self-needs to seek.

But all I breathe is musty air, which smells like rust, and browny leaves,
And, All I see is but yellow days and gloomy lights in cityscapes,
I don't need rockets and space tricks and fiction or science,
I do want what I need, and I do not want what I feel.

Being blind, I still work with these puzzles you know,
Someday maybe, there would be a place, where we all just can go.

There would be a garden, a pyramid, and the lotus of love,
There would be a blessing, too beautiful a burden from up above.

Poetry, I give you leave tonight,
Tonight the rooms are all dark,
And the moon seems to be a ball of rice,
Poetry, I thus realize,

  That kids are born but all alone, to fight and to survive,
That brothers of mine would carry guns, and swords to imbibe the taste of hate,
My ministry of freedom, would ask me,
To celebrate the religion of chains and barriers,
And the newsroom would speak of a thousand dollars in a bank.

There's no doctor who would carry the reservoir of proper medicines,
There's not a police who would not love to beat up citizens and addicts,
There's no art in government and while doing duties,
This is evolution, evil and we write poetry at ease?

Poetry, I thus take leave from you, as sooner, as possible, my friend,
When the morning sky would turn blue, again.

There would be no one anymore,
To shout and speak naked truths,
There was no one never, to celebrate love,
There is no one to understand these galloping thoughts.
My poetry, you are and you were never mine...

Poetry, you are but an elitist propaganda,
A young blessing, but rather a burden,
Which turns out to be a curse.

Poetry, take leave thus,
And, I would burn the sentiments of such an insensitive farce.

Poetry, take leave,
Please, In brief.

I have a car,
I have a pet,
I have a carpet.

She had a home
She gave me some work,
I did my homework.

I had a dream,
I wanted to be like...
It was all dreamlike.

Well, Life is short,
And, We had lived,
This poem is short-lived.

I Kiss my fantasy, with lips as wet,
As moss,
I kiss my fractions of sentiments, which boils and bubbles a lot.
My cauldron of hate, toils and troubles around these frames of life,
I trust the nameless destination, but not the very shadowing impermanence of signs.

I kiss the cotton, with silky care and sun burnt mirth,
I kiss and caress my huntings for a three hundred degrees thirst,
I point towards the woods, wherein the fountain may sprinkle some water over the lost balloons,
I try finding, what I found, and what I lost at certain gloomy afternoons.

I come back home without a burden, after scorching conversations, which
stitches and stuffs the telling tales,
Of and about the gaseous state of fire, which may bring some happiness under my battlements.

And, In pieces and punches and in pastures I breathe,
But, I do shiver at the very thought of attachments, in brief.

I can resist everything, but,
Not temptations!

Nature has a beautiful way of saying,
That an experience and a change can be the only constant, as such.
That life on earth moves like a timid yellow lamp,
We breathe the heat of troubles, and we adjust to the newer patterns of the flame.
We try stitching together the tattered tattoo of thoughts and memories, which are lame...

We as characters, underneath the hazy shades of appearance,
tremble at the passing of hunts and hordes,
Sleeping to sweep out the dreams of a thousand years or more.
Nature continues to elude us to the constancy of change,
We rephrase, to repeat the act of movement.

Embracing all what is new today,
Would fade away like fallen leaves,
Change is thus perhaps, the only constant,
In brief.

Fire lies before you, while water lies behind-
A gentle air would help you, in case you do not find
the flame of poison, the ghost of grass
Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy, All are made of brass

Move ahead, wait hidden in line,
Three of us are kind,
But fire lies before you and water lies behind.

Choose unless you wish to know the unknown,
forever and forever more,
The tune and time and the ticking clock
would give you a minute four.

Did you find what's left inside?
You mustn't the hide show,
You can stand at either end,
And stare as the fluids flow.

I am not your friend, not your right,
Not even your first sight,
But as fire lies before you, and a little water
Clears the light.

শুনেছিলাম তুমি কবিতা ভালোবাসো,
তাই তোমার জন্যে একটা কবিতা থাক
আমি দু এক কলম লিখি,
পাঁচিলে কাক, পাখির ডাক, রোমান্টিসিজম থাক

বরং তোমাকে ওদের গল্প বলি,
যারা অনেক দূরএর পাহাড়ে থাকে,
ওদের ঘর নেই, আমারি মতন,
আমি যন্ত্রনা আর কালো মেঘ এর দরজা বন্ধ করেছি,
আমি বন্ধ করেছি পুরোনো ফ্রেম এর ছবির বই,
আমি বন্ধ করেছি স্বপ্ন দেখা,

তুমি এসেছিলে, থেমে বলেছিলে,
সিগারেট পুড়ে ছাই হয়,
তবু আমি নাকি ধোয়ার মতন.

আগুন পাহাড়ে নিভে যায়,
গোটা আকাশ এর কালো মেঘ এ বজ্র বিদ্যুৎ খেলে,
সাপ এর ফনা তুলে তারারা ঝিকমিক করে এগোয়,
পিছোয়.
আমি ভাবি, আরো ভাবি
তুমি এসেছিলে , থেমে বলেছিলে,
এতো ভেবে হবে কি ?
আমি ঘুম থেকে উঠেছিলাম সবে,
আমি পাঁচিলে বসে পাহাড় বানাই,
আমি কাক এর ডাকে উত্তর দি,
ওরা সব পাহাড়ে থাকে, অনেক দূর
আমি শব্দ শিশির বোতলে বানাই সুর.

আমি ভালো আছি, তুমি আছো কেমন?
বলেছিলে ভালো..

অনেকদিন পাহাড়ে যায়নি,
আজ যাবো,
শুনেছিলাম তুমি কবিতা ভালোবাসো,
আমায় কবিতা দাও, আমি কবি হবো.

People are just as wonderful as sunsets,
if you truly let them be.
When I look at a sunset, I don’t find myself saying-
“Soften the orange a bit, on the right-hand corner!
And a bit of purple with a tinge of butter silk right on the center. Bleeding bubbly blues, and a bit of shiny sapphire gray...
well no! Never! I never do that!”

I don’t try to control a sunset.
But with an almost absolutely,
resounding awe,
I watch the complete entirety,
of that enormous beauty of that starry sober dome of the sky.

And as to how it truly unfolds itself,
slowly with enough time, with enough leisure,
and with perfect normalcy.

Nothing is permanently true, and nothing is built to last forever.
Or rather does it tend to be true?

Or is it as true as both nothingness and everything?

We bleed experience, words, emotions, belief, faith,
and trust-
like rocket balloons getting saucy fried,
on a hot silver solid pan.

Or as a tornado which remained stuck-
for a long, long, long ******* time,
under those frail, and foolish fuzzy spotting of our silent throats,
just to receive,
the very patronage-
of a self-colonized theory of a both virtue and vice.

And we so very innocuously try too hard,
to protect the entire ideating process of both self-control and balance.

It is like an acceptance,
like a ninja riding a tandem bi-cycle,
like an exactness, like a round thing, like it is happening.

But just beneath the very glassy shades of streaming waves of colors, which are made out of tears,
there lies the courage to accept,
which thrives upon the vibrancy of subtlety.

And, that sunset brings a shift in your state,
from this mundane reality to the magical impressionistic beauty,
of everything and anything, which is true.
Which has always been true...

That you see every evening, with awe, and wonder,
And with an eagerness to wait,
To ask yourself-" But then where?"

And you smile and sniffle for a moment,
and a voice whispers a solid sound of music,
And you look at the solemn gloom of numberless days,
As the staccato of memories fritters like secret stars,
Wishing to hearten a timid lamp,
And you are but Tired, You are tired as ****.

And, You wake up to hear-
"You are alive and you are here!"

A shadow is my friend.
As flowers never bend,
From the kitchen, I bring-
Lots of honey and wine.
I have been to the station,
In the park, in the mansion.
Like flowers without a fragrance,
My shadow never resembles, a layer.

See the desert, the snow, the rain.
See, go on to see some more.
Seeking to see the shelf of shells, alone.
Flowers and shadows do not have souls.

I am working, be patient with me,
Jingle the bell, words will fall.
The wires seem to call,
I eat and drink and sleep.

What leaves do they read?
What on earth does it mean?
Even now they all seem to have shadows,
Purchasing sugar.

Go on, go ahead, dance the antic hay,
A shadow is your friend,
As flowers never bend with what they say.

O Sopranist! How could you sing like this?
I offer th'aural sense to thee in peace.

Of music of thine does scatter aura bright,
And scuds the wave of cadence to a height.

As tho' piercing boulders, sweet melodies float-
Like a winding stream of nectar-note.

O Sopranist! How could you even sing like this?
I offer th'slurry flames of drunken whispers, to thee,
in peace.

Of endless happenings which may question th'soul,
O Sopranist ! would you be always there to condole?

O Sopranist! How could you sing like this?
I offer th'aural sense to thee in peace.

O Sopranist! How could you sing like this?
....
.......
.........

From the canon of thought,
The mind moves like a twirling body of smoke.
The leaves rustle, the breath of a cloud,
gets mixed with all his heroic deeds.

As the flow of a river continues like time
flowing, it tends to engulf the sufferer.
His bed of rocks shiver.

Balancing the proportionate use of memory,
He begins his speech.

Destruction is sustained, in motion.
Smoother is the course of action.
From the language supreme- it emanates-
The principal way.

He understands the resemblance, he presumes,
the family, the king, the extensions.
As the witnesses question-Who are you?

The irony of life kills the man,
It is the realization which remains.
His dignity is torn into pieces.

The shivering bed of rocks followed the pattern,
of an unconquerable host.
The way towards death, dusty death.

The moment recedes into the past.
The present records the past.
He was one of us.

Butterflies flutter in through your window,
Red, yellow and blue.
In, like a shower of rainbows,
in all merry colors and hue.

A complete transaction of hope,
you taste a purple haze of ghosts,
And into the wilderness of dark alleys and self-doubts;
Of faces, and marshmallow clouds,
You're but mincing a mundane nifty motion.

There’s a bright cold clamor of colors!

Deceptively small and intolerably thin.
You are now a feeble paper on the outside,
But Shrieking hot lava within-
And, you are now shrinking down to consume the-
chilled cracked kettle of desires,
that staggers to breathe in-
Silence...

Blood, sand, and mud,
Scarred and scared!
Bright, white, and a pearly glow;
With Skies, and for open skies,
A miserable melody overflows!
And, you would wait,
Wait again.

Sitting alone on the forest floor,
Bygone breezes tousle your hair-
A few Kids-
were playing on the streets,
those shadows fleeting past your face,
You are now Looking out into the dim yellow beats,
Of movement,
And you are trying to breathe again.

You're but melting away your fears, slowly,
With the fearful symmetrical orders of fury,
Within a perfect infertile maze of an insured immobility.
You're Free,
as free as a passionately detached, platonic paradox.

A temple…manufacturing allegiance-
A grammar of edible dreams for permeating membranes,
A drum beat for an inkling, and-
A train, speeds by overhead-

It illuminates your face,
You melt in this information of embrace.
You are in- formation.

You stand alone now,
gazing all alone into the storm,
Wishing to fly away with your by gone dreams,
Just like Snakes and Ladders, and chimneys on the shores,
Just like a Shining silver plate full of diamonds.

তখন মিমি যাদবপুরে,
মুষলধারায় বৃষ্টি,
তখন মিমি যাদবপুরে,
বি এ অনার্স হিস্ট্রি.

মিমি তখন যাদবপুরে,
উনিশ কুড়ির রক্ত,
তখন মিমি যাদবপুরে,
হিস্ট্রি নিয়ে পড়তো.

তখন মিমি যাদবপুরে,
যতীন্দ্রনাথ বাগচী,
আন্দোলন এর মন্বন্তরে,
সম্মানিত প্রার্থী.

তখন মিমি যাদবপুরে,
মুষলধারায় বৃষ্টি,
মিমি তখন যাদবপুরে,
বি এ অনার্স হিস্ট্রি.

এখন সময় বদলে গেছে,
এখন মিমি পঞ্চাশ,
কলেজ ফেরত বটতলা তে,
কল্লোলিত নিঃশাস.

এখন মিমি'র স্বরধ্বনি,
বার্নার্ড শ, ওয়ার্ডসওয়ার্থ,
মিমি এখন বদলে গেছে,
সময় এর সাথে সংঘাত.

এখন মিমি প্রস্তুতি নেয়,
সময় মানে হিস্ট্রি,
তখন মিমি যাদবপুরে,
মুষলধারায় বৃষ্টি!

When there's no light,
Twinkling in the sky,
And No nothing attached to sounds, or to words,
A complete darkling then encircles my soul,
I am all within, and I am all without.

The evening recedes, slowly,
Into the huge enormity of the roads,
The budding fingers of a reflective drama, smoke a cigarette or two,
Trying to inhale the tiresome day,
All within, and all without.

And the stream of steam, and saucy lights,
Vibrate like a lamp,
Timid and tired, as the night turns grey.
The bottle of hopes and wishes fritters like encrypted codes,
In a mode of transportation, to the colorless doom.

The scheming clouds now wash out,
The streets,
With the ferocity of an obtuse flash,
All within the membranes of frailty,
The maze of entangled wires,
Embraces the dark, like a drift of velocity.

The people with no such reason or rhyme,
Return home from the receding days,
A song within,
And a thought without, half extinguished flames.
Such starry, telling tales, moves through the mirrors, of history and facts,
And ages and ages on a dead planet.

But all,
Within and all without, like a fake plastic evolution,
Trying to strip the string of lights,
Like an aged old ghost.

For, The night is in bloom,
And they would now sleep,
In the seven sleeper's den.
All without, and all within.

I was born to do three things,
Eat good food, check out hot women,
And waste some time.
But then happened poetry, and pastel colors and more,
Of which I couldn't ignore!

To-gather,
Together.