Dear Poet Friends, the famous Coffee House is located opposite Presidency College (my alma mater) at Calcutta, it was set up during the British days, initially known as The Albert Hall. However, this poem has been inspired by an old Bengali song . Hope you will like it. Thanks, – Raj Nandy

MEMORIES OF COFFEE HOUSE OF OUR
                      STUDENT DAYS

Those nostalgic memories and our colorful dreams have
receded with the past.
Our regular evening meetings at the Coffee House has
flown with time’s arrow, - since nothing lasts!
Be it summer, monsoon, or winter, we had regularly met,
To exchange notes and gossip, even heated discussions
use to take place.
Our old friend Nikhelesh had left for Paris, and Moidul
settled in Dacca, as I last heard.
Guitarist D’Souza of the Hotel Grand now lies buried in a
walled cemetery next to a church.
Betrayed in love singer Reena Roy is spending her days in
a lunatic asylum alas!
While Amol suffered from a raging cancer, life had proved
merciless for him till the very last!
Renuka was perhaps the happiest amongst us all, having
married a millionaire husband as I have been told.
She lives in a luxurious bungalow covered in jewelry of
diamond and gold.
Sanyal of Art College who drew pictures for an Ad Agency
those days,
With wide eyes listened to the narrations of Runa Roy, the
amateur actress, during those Coffee House days.
Long haired Basir, the amateur poet, has been forgotten in time;
None of his poems got published, his talents had remained
unrecognized!
Between sips of coffee and cigarette smoke heated arguments
use to take place.
Topics ranging from politics, poetry, art and football, were
very popular even in those days.

Those black round wooden tables and chairs still remain
unchanged to this very day.
But with the passing of time the faces of its occupants have
all changed, as generations have faded away.
Thus the cycle of life revolves as new flowers bloom.
But the Coffee House shall continue to last through many
a moon.
                                                           ­      -By Raj Nandy of New Delhi.

Fast more fast and a faster drive
Speed not kills but saves his life
Reach quicker and deliver more
Matters only numbers of door.

Someone's son someone's heartthrob
Forgets all when ******* job
Quick quicker on quickest mode
Bike wheels burn on asphalt road.

In lanes bylanes must find address
Can't afford one small recess
A brief meeting and end of deals
Pocket bunched with paid bills.

Around moon is a haloed mist
But night is one cruel beast
Won't let him look above
Think of a poem sweet in love.

A sudden splash of misty whiteness
Where sterile outlines fill
With skin pink water colors,
Then the rainbows separate into distinct arcs,
Blending again at my supplication.

Shushed whispers turn my head.
I listened for whistles, songs, familiar voices;
Pleased to praise when requested, when warranted,
Advise when asked, offer silence when needed.

I felt skin on my skin,
Sunblock and creams,
Long before your hand in mine.
I have offered my hands too,
Palm to Palm.

Your scent is forever,
And can't be covered with perfumes or incense.
At the most unusual times, it hits me.
I'll turn in a line, or somewhere,
Expecting you right there.
I enter a room knowing you're near,
Here, within.
Part of my life I live in vain memory.

It's bitter sweet, this journey,
And we are the salt of the earth, our earth.
From deprivation to overload.
And I sense, with sound insight,
We can still get it right.

he rises early, well before the premature, minutest hints of early dawn,
cradling tenderized words, from a silent marinating mind withdrawn,
some spices harvested from the soil's mortality of daily strife, others,
manna gifts of wild floral tenderness, plucked from Eve's tree of life

neither gardener nor chef, the fruits of his labor, are product of
a mothers mind's silent back labor, emerging with no notice or invitation, spilt from lips unmoving, eyes shuttered, fingers ungloved
ministering a Temple sacrifice of plain psalms authored but un-titled

some spark ignition causes a key reversal, from motionless to motion,
moving with no in-between, words simmering, from seeds unknown,
the dishe's integrity questioned, but it births itself, uncaring, eagerly, willing copied from cavern decorations of rude, wall drawings

almost fully formed, though untasted and undigested, a savant smell
provokes a leap from placid prone, to upright and seated upon the
throne of his writing desk, can one* *divine a recipe from odor alone,
thus claiming authorship of an untitled dish, one that can't be recreated?

sets it down before you uncovered, with a lustrous screen of silk damask,
plated on Royal Worcester fine bone china, yet, without any utensils,
asking you to ken this work,
*eat this poem, with bare hands,
love it as if it was your own first born,
consumed/consuming
a strange but familiar spirit

Once I was young and strong,
Consumed with compelling
desires of Horizon Lust,
traveling forth wide and far.

Time and age has intervened,
now I stand alone and wait
high above on the city gate,
Silent sentry to all of those young
lives that venture forth to explore
horizons of their own, and those
weather beat ones like me
returning to rest and remain.

Accepting as I must, that I shall
never again roam too far afield  
from my place upon the gate,
Content with a life well lived,
to languish now upon this place.

Horizon Lust is for the young.