your voice is still trying to reach out to me,
shut up! let me listen
you painting my uninterrupted love poetry ,

0pen your third eye, keep it mild,
do not incinerate me,
i want to gaze into creation and eternity.

A cold winter noon
Perched atop a new ruin,
Toothpick stirring a remix bhajan,
Rocking in a lame chair, there I am.
Taking in the sun,
Thinking of the world, the poor
And sipping on my ***.

‘’Ayele kanda, batata’’
Ah, there goes my line.
Why doesn’t the idiot shut up?
We can’t anymore buy onion and potato.

A lonely koel perches on the antenna
Clears its throat and tries to sing,
Hoot! Out of my sight you noisy thing.
Give me peace and let me think.

One more sip, the line comes again,
The down trodden!
A girl of sixteen was ***** and killed.
Who will punish the bustards? Such a shame.

A mother of two violated,  
Shorn and paraded naked.
Served her right, the five magi hissed
Her threadbare boy shouldn’t a Brahmin have kissed!

The stocks went down; the Taj has gone brown,
Down with the rightists, down with the leftists,
Down with the middle-east, down with the Pakis,
And the Chinese, a foreign hand, don’t you see?

Rocking in the lame chair,
Taking in the sun,
Thinking of the world
And sipping on my ***.

Voodoo bring me my bow of shining gold,
bring in the arrows of desire!
Bring in the bets, let the signs be told,
brow beat dissent with the Don's ire.

Fortify the power of  lucre,
to the pit of ignominy and deceit lure
the bright colts of  the game.
For when the pocket is full,
and the roost we rule,
can there be any shame?

I see see and we see see eye
to eye that making money is our right.
I see see do see see bookies on the prowl!
We see see red eye and growl,
shut up or else your projects
we won't bankroll.

I will not cease from all out fight,
the seat of power can't be let out of sight.
The magi devised Strategic Time Out
to earn more dime from TV rights.

Some may bark and others shirk
from shouldering the ***** blame,
the control's still with me, O hark!
You see the club is lame.

Blake, did those giants in ancient times
Stride with honour in the beautiful game?
Did the masters shed blood in the country's name
to let it be sullied today with ugly grime?
The hollow shirts mouthed clichés inane
and the ties sold the game for thirty dimes.

The corridors shake, the mighty quake,
the vassals at last revolt,
what would be left in the wake
are the ashes of the old.
Can it then rise, like the phoenix bird
and make its flight to behold,
or be buried in some other muck
a sordid saga retold!

Rana Pratap Nandi

Waiting for you
by my lonely riverside,
in my twilight mood
motionless, counting the ripples,
tipsy with the musky smell
of first satiated earth.
Lusting for more.
Thinking of you, a few words,
a silver lining, becoming one
with the ivy growths on my
ancient sturdy castle.
A young breeze comes singing
of you and another brings
a tuft of cloud,
sailing on a silver lining.
A piece of white satin
blood and gold seeping through.
And streaks of dusk.