"bengali" poems
Mumbai is rich, Mumbai is poor.
Mumbai is fast, Mumbai is slower.
Little bit sweet, and little bit sour,
Sometimes it’s hot but not too more….
Mornings are energetic and evenings are electric.
Noons are lazy but Nights are crazy
And any one you ask he always say “M busy”
Dude, life in Mumbai is not so easy
There is lot of Masti with little bit of Maska
Welcome to the city that can’t live, without Bollywood Chaska
From cooker whistles to the traffic jam horns,
From steaming tea kettles to breaking nut-betels
From telephone rings and doorbell brings.
There are people connecting through Blackberry pings
Where there’s little time to spare for kids
People here spend their lives on bids
Here you actually pay your travel fare by meter
But milkman mixing water is not a cheater!
Sev puri and bhel puri are all Mumbai chaat
Relishing it with spicy chutney is no easy art
From pop-corn to ice-cream, all sold on cart
Mumbai o Mumbai, you’re always close to my heart
Where local trains usually run on time
And violently rushing for a seat is not a crime
Here 3 PM for lunch and 12 AM to dine
People face hardships, but still say “it’s fine”
From Mt Mary in Bandra to Mumba Devi in Town
And ISKCON in Juhu to Haji Ali in Mumbai’s Crown
Faith runs deep as the Arabian Sea
But people don’t hesitate to pay early darshan fee.
Marathi, Punjabi, Gujarati and Bengali
Everyone forgather celebrate Id and Diwali
Holi is colourful and Christmas is cheerful
Spend some time here and your life will be un-forgetful
Billionaire to baggers, all found in this city
Be careful dude, this place is a bit witty.
Overall this dream-world is huge but pretty
Mumbai o Mumbai you’re wonderful city.
Feb 3, 2016
Feb 3, 2016 at 1:15 AM UTC
To speak all these languages:
Assamese, Bengali, Bodo,
Chhattisgarhi, Dogri , Garo -
Oh, to be able to tongue, "Love"
in Gajarati, Hini, Kannada, Kashmiri,
Khasi, Kokborok, Konkani -
Or lip, "Desire" in
Maithili, Malayalam, Manipuri, Marathi, Mizo, Nepali -
Or whisper, "Good night, Dear"
in Oriya, Punjabi, Sanskrit,
Santali, Sindhi, Telugu, Tamil, or Urdu.
Jan 17, 2011
Jan 17, 2011 at 10:49 PM UTC
Shabash
Shābāsh (Hindi: शाबाश, Urdu: شاباش, Punjabi: ਸ਼ਾਬਾਸ਼, Bengali: শাবাশ, Telugu: శబాష్) is a term used in the Indian subcontinent to signal commendation for an achievement, similar in meaning to
bravo and kudos.
……………………………………………
a poem writ sometimes, oft,
snaps back,
I was surprising recipient
of a commendation in language
I knew not
the poem spoke well
of broken boundaries,
between in this instance,
Jew and Muslim,
capturing a momentary parting
of the seaways and
walls of misbelief
and mischief,
normally employed
to keep our divisions,
parted perpetually
I’ve decided to begin to
use shabash now,
my ‘go to’ word
from now on,
a small quiet way
to say
well done
it starts with one word,
a stretching hand across
the face fence,
imagining John Lennon’s
imagine-world,
who lay dying when I was
a young father of thirty,
me residing less than a
mile away from each other
little could I imagine then that
poetry would pick me at all,
especially to write of words
in dialects I don’t speak,
but imaging their pastel colorations
flying by in gentle breezes,
eager to be grabbed,
plucked from the air,
tongued and loved
so!
when I say to you,
in the softest spoke,
shabash!
to all of us,
for choosing this path,
using your words in
every dialect,
to spread the imagination
of good will
8-4-2019
10:10 am
S.I.
Aug 4, 2019
Aug 4, 2019 at 10:28 AM UTC
Freedom, you are the pride of Bengal
Freedom, you are the right of Bengali
Freedom, you are the light of life path
Freedom, you are built with the blood of Bengali!
Freedom, you are the smile of sad moms
Freedom, you are in the heart of Bengali
Freedom, you are the moon of the night
Freedom, you are the best success to Bengali!
Freedom, you are the reward to the ****** ocean
Freedom, you are the reverence to crores of Bengalis
Freedom, you are the reason for happiness to Bengalis
Freedom, you are the new life of Bengal!
Freedom, you are the dream of millions of martyrs
Freedom, you are the island of the endless ocean
Freedom, you are the long hair of the village girls
Freedom, you are so high like the blue sky!
Freedom, you stay in real action
Freedom, you stay in the spirit of Bengalis
Freedom, you stay with black and white
Freedom, you live in everyone's religion!
Freedom, you are my first priority
Freedom, you are my first torch
Freedom, you are my dignity
Freedom, freedom, I'll never do injustice to you!
Apr 6, 2021
Apr 6, 2021 at 1:22 PM UTC
A swansong of the Indian Partition...
Kal humaare ghar ke diye bujhe rahenge,
Kal hum kuch rishton ke liye rote rahenge...
Tomorrow the lamps of our home will remain put out,
Tomorrow we shall keep crying for some relations...
Rishte un bantwaara hue kheton se,
Rishte un bhatakte hue jawaanon se...
Relations with those partitioned farmlands,
Relations with those misguided young men...
Rishte us chamakti Multani mitti se,
**Rishte us damakti Pakhtunkhwi **** se...**
Relations with the glistening soil of Multan,
Relations with the bright snow of Pakhtunkhwa...
Rishte Ganga ke us Bangali muhaane se,
Rishte Sindhu dariya aur samudr ke us mel se...
Relations with the Ganga's Bengali estuary,
Relations with the confluence of Indus and the Sea...
Rishte us Balouchi kapaas se,
Rishte udhde un kapdon se...
Relations with that Balouchi cotton,
Relations with those clothes torn away...
Rishte luti us izzat se,
Rishte mari us bahu se...
Relations with the disrobed honour,
Relations with the slain bride...
Rishte jo sajaaye the mandap mein,
Rishte jo likhaaye the jannat mein...
Relations decorated inside the temple,
Relations written in the paradise...
**********
Aug 14, 2019
Aug 14, 2019 at 2:10 PM UTC
The Seashore Gathering
by Rabindranath Tagore
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
On the seashores of endless worlds, earth's children converge.
The infinite sky is motionless, the restless waters boisterous.
On the seashores of endless worlds earth's children gather to dance with joyous cries and pirouettes.
They build sand castles and play with hollow shells.
They weave boats out of withered leaves and laughingly float them out over the vast deep.
Earth's children play gaily on the seashores of endless worlds.
They do not know, yet, how to cast nets or swim.
Divers fish for pearls and merchants sail their ships, while earth's children skip, gather pebbles and scatter them again.
They are unaware of hidden treasures, nor do they know how to cast nets, yet.
The sea surges with laughter, smiling palely on the seashore.
Death-dealing waves sing the children meaningless songs, like a mother lullabying her baby's cradle.
The sea plays with the children, smiling palely on the seashore.
On the seashores of endless worlds earth's children meet.
Tempests roam pathless skies, ships lie wrecked in uncharted waters, death wanders abroad, and still the children play.
On the seashores of endless worlds there is a great gathering of earth's children.
Originally published by The Chained Muse. My translation is based on an untitled text in Bangla (Bengali) first published in 1912 and known as "60" due to its numerical placement. Tagore made history by becoming the first Asian to win the Nobel Prize for Literature the following year. Keywords/Tags: seashore, gathering, children, sky, sea, water, dance, sand castles, shells, boats, play, nets, swim, fish, pearls, ships, waves, songs, mother, lullaby, baby, cradle, tempests, death
Mar 30, 2020
Mar 30, 2020 at 11:03 PM UTC
'Kabali' and 'Badlapur' actor Radhika Apte will be the show-stopper in the upcoming Lakme Fashion Week in the ‘Gulzar’ collections of a prominent Kolkata-based fashion designer.
“We have been working with Radhika since 'Majhi the Mountain Man' days (2015) and she will be flaunting our fabrics as show-stopper in India’s premier fashion show which is keenly followed by Bollywood," the well-known city-based woman fashion designer told media after a fashion show in a city hotel last Friday night.
The Lakme Fashion Week is a bi-annual fashion event with the summer-resort show taking place in April while the winter-festive show is held in August.
This year the winter-festive show will be held from August 24 to 28.
Radhika will be wearing bright-colored lehenga since the show will be focused on beautiful India, it’s colours and contours, choreographed with the poetry of nature by Amir Khusro, the designer said.
“It can also be termed our tribute to a great name like Gulzar saab who has brought our lyrics and poems to a new level,” the designer Saroj Jalan said.
The signature style of the designer, whose works adorn Bollywood actors like Radhika beside well known models Lisa Sharma and former Miss Universe India winner Ushoshi Sengupta, is delicate floral patterns along with the use of Zardozi and array of hand-woven tusser silk and velvet enhancing the experience of the garments and “we will project the same in the Lakme week where the accent is on ethnicity,” designer Saroj Jalan said.
Supermodel Ushoshi, having recently debuted in the Bengali film 'Egoler Chokh', said “Lakme show reflects the different tastes of all leading Indian fashion designers who are still rooted to Indian heritage.”Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/short-formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/red-carpet-celebrity-dresses
Aug 22, 2016
Aug 22, 2016 at 12:29 AM UTC
*The essence of festivities all around
And the ray of hope
lit in our eyes
Few more days
And it begins.
Festival will come, once again
New attires, new hopes
shining in bright light.
Mother Goddess arrives,
to heal our mind.
9th and 10th day left
With good wishes all around
When Goddess Durga arrives
Returns back our smiles
And heart fills up with happiness.
With the arrival of Goddess Durga
Take back the past
Take back our past love
Take back everything
Which no longer belongs to us
And make us anew.*
Written originally in Bengali-
*Pujo pujo gondho
Amader sobar chokhe aalo
Kichu din aaro
Tarpor pujo aarombho.
Pujo aashbe, abar aasbey
Notun kapor, notun aaloker dhaara
Maa elo abar,
Mon k saariye deoyar jonno.
Nobomi r dashmi baki
Preeti o Shubhechha
Maa-r aagomone
Firbe abar haashi
Mon bhore Khushi
Elo Maa Durga
Aager din er kotha
Aager prem
Sob firiye nao
Amader notun kore dao.*
Sep 28, 2017
Sep 28, 2017 at 2:28 PM UTC
[Dedicated to Aung San Suu Kyi, the greatest Fraud of all times]
Darkness like Halagu Khan is running
taking sword in hand;
Light is fleeing raising its tail.
The decorated dream-city will lose its
electricity for ever;
in all directions, the slogan of hyenas
will be heard only.
Going to the shade of Bodhi Tree,
I asked Gautama Buddha,
'By tasting which poisonous fruit,
your disciples have become insane
and have been involved in massacre
in Myanmar? '
Hanging his head, said Gautama, 'Darkness.'
Going to Bethlehem, I asked Jesus Christ,
'By drinking which grape-juice,
your disciples have become insane
and have been involved in massacre in Mosul,
Baghdad and Syria singing of democracy? '
Hanging his head, said Jesus, 'Darkness.'
Going to the holy home of Moses,
I bowed down my head and said, 'Would you
tell me, by eating which Manna and Salwa
your disciples have become insane
and have been involved in killing children
and women in holy Palestine? '
Hanging his head, said Moses, 'Darkness.'
Going to Mathura city, I said to Lord Krishna,
'Please tell me, by eating which food
offering to deity, your disciples have become
insane and have been involved in massacre
in Kashmir, Delhi and Gujarat? '
Hanging his head, said Krishna, 'Darkness.'
Darkness like Halagu Khan is running
taking sword in hand;
Light is fleeing raising its tail.
Again the days of darkness have descended on earth.
I have been searching Abdul-Muttalib's son
Abdullah's house in Pharaoh's city—
in such a thick darkness, no doubt,
the Sun of the desert had risen
in the lap of Amina!
[Translated by the poet from Bengali]
Dec 9, 2016
Dec 9, 2016 at 7:28 AM UTC
i used to care so so much
for this world,
but then a cat on a street taught me
to do otherwise,
there i was, by the lorry bins
on an estate, and there he was,
autistic as he was,
i stopped, he gestured his five whiskers,
i asked afoot at the crucifix: 'may i pass?'
he gestured with a blank stare that
i was granted...
so i passed... i didn't want the poor
****** to feel displaced...
or as in vision: a giant Venus over-flowering
of genitalia descending onto Plato's academy
into picture like a roof - asking - will the argumentation
seize to continue?! a floral goddess could
not enlightened these stone hearts,
so descent of a goddesses' genitalia comparable
to a flower could not weaken and make root
of weeds and later flowers into these hearts,
and i know so... oh i know so...
i know the strength of this brotherhood -
it's akin to a tear hearing the islamic call to prayer...
and the competing disavowal of an engagement with
women, simply for their despotism in the realm
of the household, which only women of blue Indians of
the former Raj know how to avoid, via sway unto
Bengali en-route to the Himalayas.
Mar 15, 2016
Mar 15, 2016 at 8:05 PM UTC
je t'aime said my first lover
France had given me love
Te amo said Spain
Still love wasn't enough
wô ài ńi i heard while eating sushi
China had given me her heart
ich liebe dich i heard in Germany
i thought maybe we'll have a start
s'agapo said the greek beauty
But i wasn't mesmerized in her soul
Doo-set daaram said my persian lover
i still didn't feel the warmth, i still felt cold
Ya tebya liubliu she said and kissed
But Russia was the same, still nothing new
ik hou van jou said dutch lady
but real love in this world was really few
Ngo oiy a the cantonese beauty said
But i still kept searching for love
ani ohev otach by hebrew girl
But somehow it still wasn't enough
My bengali beauty said ami to make bhalobashi
but i wasn't yet satisfied
my arabic princess said ana behibak
But still i didn't have a peaceful night
When i sat back home
i realized which one is true
Arms wrapped around me, hugged me and said
"i love you".
Apr 11, 2014
Apr 11, 2014 at 12:21 AM UTC
Big Brother's are there
Elder ones also
But,Dada is one & only
The Prince of Calcutta(now Kolkata)
" heart throb of every cricket lover
" proud of Bengali's
He's a nation's leader
Also renowned as Maharaj
But,in true sense
He's the Royal Bengal Tiger
The one & only across the Universe
He's none but our beloved
Pride of Nation
Sourav Ganguly
The ultimate Warrior Prince-Written on 01.10.2012
Oct 1, 2015
Oct 1, 2015 at 11:30 AM UTC
After fifty years
I slipped into the school.
Madame Bela was visibly pleased
*The classroom was too empty
Now I've one to do maths with*
No less happy was Auntie Aloka
My favorite student is back
She lifted me up and said with a kiss
*So vacant felt my class of English
Without a boy from olden times
Sweetly singing nursery rhymes*
My eyes searched her and before long
Miss Jaya spoke in her softest tongue
*I'm so glad to see his face
Sans him Bengali class was all emptiness*
And there he was the only Sir
Amiyo Baboo the sports teacher
*Isn't this the boy never won my trust
For always being in every race last*
Fifty years haven't changed a bit
Either their age or their spirit
And surely the fun was doubly more
When I stood before the school mirror.
Apr 25, 2016
Apr 25, 2016 at 10:19 AM UTC
I hear the sounds of the city I the distance.
Cars, truck and auto rickshaws screaming for space on the bypass.
Far from my terrace they seem to be
Yet they are close to enough that the breeze brings their fumes.
A shawl is spread beneath me
To keep my clothes from the dust that is not washed away up here.
Up here, where my eyes can barely see the treetops.
Up here, where the sun is strong and browning my fair skin.
Up here, where I am exposed and unseen.
The worries of all my differences are erased when I alight the steps to my rooftop.
It doesn't matter that I don't speak Bengali .
It doesn't matter that I'm sick of Dal and the Baigan Bharta is too spicy.
It doesn't matter that I am a foreigner and always will be.
I am celebrated by the the crows and mosquitos that find solace above Kolkata.
In turn, I can celebrate the fact that I've found a corner where my foreignness is not offensive nor inviting.
It just is, and I'm just me; far above the dusty streets and the stray dogs that keep me up a night with their howls.
Feb 20, 2013
Feb 20, 2013 at 10:23 AM UTC
I smile and cry in Bengali
I sing in Bengali too
Whenever I feel pain
I find a cure in Bengali!
Bengali is my mother tongue
The Bengali language is my soul
I see the simple path in Bengali
and there I get my wound heal!
Bengali is the light of my eyes
Bengali words are the power of my voice
The Bengali language has been honored
and it has no competitors.
We talk in Bengali
That's why we are Bengali
We won the Liberation War for this passion
and now we are independent!
Bengali, today you are proud of us
for whose love, blood, and self-sacrifice
They are on the head of Bengali;
They are alive with the rising sun.
Oh, Bengali language,
You have been purified
with the blood of our nation
On the 'Twenty-one' February!
Feb 21, 2021
Feb 21, 2021 at 9:42 AM UTC
Bengal Lancers.
Bengal Tigers.
Bengali in a sombrero?
Bengal Pradip:
Priceless.
Jun 27, 2015
Jun 27, 2015 at 10:46 PM UTC
We live in a house, simple and nice
With a garden lined with crotons in rows
Not so neatly trimmed or pruned as before
And a lawn not always well manicured
But abounding in plants with blooms of varied hue
From shady corners, orchids peep
They bring forth flowers in bunches and mass
Only on certain seasons, not the year round.
Then a visual treat to the eyes, indeed!
Trees big and small border our land
Mango trees and jack fruit trees
Coconut palms and guava trees
Twining creepers with globular passion fruits
Bushy plants of sweet and sour berries
Rose apples, papayas and Chinese limes
An epitome of country abundance!
In front of the house was once a stretch of fields
Lush and fresh with paddy plants in June
And in autumn, bent with arching sheaves of corn
Green parakeets used to come from far
To eat the grains ready to be reaped
Having their fill they would fly westward in flocks
Such scenes were a source of instant delight
But sad enough, those fields were gradually filled
In place of paddy and other seasonal crops
Industrial units, big and small have emerged
By degrees, the quiet and coolness of the place
That once soothed our frayed nerves are gone
Now an exodus of men have landed here
Laborers who have come from Northern states
To eke out a living in a better clime
Speaking languages, Bengali, Hindi and Tamil
Leaving the area noisy with incessant chatter
Along the road that runs parallel to our house
Now speeds past, motors in unbroken row
Honking horns and raising a screen of smoky dust
Spoiling the ambiance of our verdant setting
And badly impairing the neat surroundings
But with every change of scene and setting
We, like nomads cannot change our stay or dwelling
Well acclimatized to all noise and commotion
We now stick to our home, our humble haven
And strive to create within an inner landscape
Not polluted by the ravages of time or clime
Home is the sanctuary where we roost and rest
A sweet dwelling, more than all mansions blest
And it should be an abode of love where hearts embrace
Every turn of life, grim or merry with no fuss but with grace
How sweet it is to dwell beneath this roof
Our wedded life’s enduring love’s living proof!
Jul 29, 2017
Jul 29, 2017 at 9:35 AM UTC
shock and awe, shown the light, shown the door,
by the literary muses, kings and queens,
and the royal cooks, of course,
all rouse me at 4:00 am,
to salute those who can cook,
knowing how to summer simmer a simple broth of love
with richest, tasty, succinct, succulent brevity
that
keeps this wordy would be poet,
honest
all the varied spices,
artful adjectives, verbose verbs, numbing, never-heard-of nouns
are humbled in joy, all join this poet,
to honor the
curried simplicity
of
the Bengali cook of love
from India
who says it reverently,
all
in
one
simple sentence,
sourced locally
love is his staple,
love is rice
~
5/31/17
4:10am
May 31, 2017
May 31, 2017 at 5:40 AM UTC
Dawn and I dawn my caftan
With pen in hand
I close my eyes
And start crafting
I put on my djellabah
Which begets my lojong
...and soon
I begin to float
Like paint, ink blankets
The sheets of my Bengali jute
...and soon
I begin to coast
In this moment
I exist happily
Outside of all I know
About me
* Reprinted from 'My Hajj A Collection of Poems by Mekael'
© September 16, 2011 by Mekael Shane
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 2:26 PM UTC
Big Brother's are there
Elder ones also
But,Dada is one & only
The Prince of Calcutta(now Kolkata)
" heart throb of every cricket lover
" proud of Bengali's
He's a nation's leader
Also renowned as Maharaj
But,in true sense
He's the Royal Bengal Tiger
The one & only across the Universe
He's none but our beloved
Pride of Nation
Sourav Ganguly
The ultimate Warrior Prince-Written on 01.10.2012
Sep 30, 2016
Sep 30, 2016 at 3:05 PM UTC
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.
Jan 12, 2018
Jan 12, 2018 at 10:04 AM UTC
She was scarcely twenty one
on the day the Reaper came.
A writer of great promise;
Toru Dutt was her name.
Bengali was her native tongue,
but only just her first.
She had conversed in German,
written French and English verse.
Now she lay silent, dressed in white
in the company of flowers.
A shame it was a funeral pyre
and not her wedding bower.
Her sister, overcome with grief,
Her Parents both the same.
Her sad eyed father lit the torch
and consigned her to the flames.
How quickly did those flames consume
the girl who lived to write.
Her dust was carried on the winds
from the sacrificial site.
The beauty of her verse endures
and will preserve her name.
That's all that could be salvaged
of the maiden from the flames.
Jul 15, 2012
Jul 15, 2012 at 7:55 AM UTC
He told me that he was afraid.
He told me that he had loved just one girl in his life.
And that she had crossed Seven seas and eight worlds by this lonely moment
That we were caught up in the swirls of the green grassy smoke of Mary and Jane.
He told me that I was too pretty for his eyes, mind and soul.
I told him,
It’s a heat and that I was not there to **** him.
I told him that we were just caught in the jingle of the purest heat,
I told him to relax and sleep.
And that I will not touch him.
I told him that I’m a sweet ******
I told him to stop staring at me with those sweet puppy eyes,
So that I can control my arousal, nausea and heat.
I snuggled close to him on a single bed,
Lulling him and sending strong telepathic heat.
After a while, he turned.
He asked how wrong it would be if he would go soft in between the sacred art of love,
I told him that is the passion and that is the heat.
And that it is to be simply genuine to your rushes wherein *** comes.
I told him *** is not an exam.
I told him that *** is a rush.
I told him that *** is the Heat.
I told him to be simply genuine.
I told him *** is to love.
I asked him if he loved me.
He said, ‘Ami tomako Bhishon Bhalo bhashi’,
Which is Bengali for, ‘I love you very much’.
I creased my brows
And scorned at him saying that he’d just met me,
He said,
That was enough,
And that I was his own soul,
In flesh and Blood.
We made sweet sweet love,
That night.
All night,
On the cold floor of his shabby apartment,
On that sweaty night,
When power was never there.
I went to my flat in the morning,
I bid him goodbye by the evening train,
I never asked his name.
It was as if I had to know it later,
Not now.
Not today.
Not this week, month or year.
Just another age.
He never asked my name.
He must’ve felt the same.
For telepathy, never cheats.
Today, I wonder. I trip.
And I imagine him as all that I want,
For all that I know is his sweet puppy eyes,
And the ablaze heat that taught me that somewhere,
There lies a momentary passion bigger than me,
Inside me.
Waiting to burn, Roast and Shrink
My ego, my identity and myself!
Dec 8, 2014
Dec 8, 2014 at 3:32 PM UTC
Circe, queen of my dreams
that neighbor here still gleams
this sheen replete in autumn
where frosty was her bottom
and sweet with Bengali
cork again a season finale!
Dec 24, 2016
Dec 24, 2016 at 8:41 AM UTC