Frequently, of late
I catch myself contemplate
This inscrutable beast called poetry
What is banal, what has worth
Does anything I birth
Surpass a manual of carpentry?

And yet.. I reach, therefore I am human.

"ছি ছি কুৎসিত কুরূপ সে।
হেন বঙ্কিম ভুরুযুগ নাহি তার,
হেন উজ্জল কজ্জল-আঁখিতারা।"

Femmage to three
No less my inner imp
For why should it be
Inscrutable only to me?

"নহে সে ভোগীর লোচনলোভা,
ক্ষত্রিয়বাহুর ভীষণ শোভা।।"

Unfinished, I
Beautiful in no one's eye

Words staccato, clumsy
Opus magnum, not. Just a WIP.
Much beset by
sporadic, erratic editing.
But, like that manual of carpentry
It fills a need.
So I, maybe
For somebody?