Monday, July 24, 2017

Falling, slipping, vanishing...

Rain.
Rupashi Bangla on my table.
An ephemeral instant passes by, when I am.
In the sound of the raindrops, in the scent of the manuscript, I can be.

Then, unable to hold on, I begin to quiver.
Relentlessly.
And I think, I become, I look, hear and am predicated.
By the time I write, it is lost.

This shadow of a brief nothing is all that stays.

Saturday, July 22, 2017

For HPL

It howls
behind the wolfen shore,
veiling the round moon.
It shrieks
through the needle-sharp leaves
of the conifers
in the clouds.

It burns
in the ancient tentacles
seeking saline shelter
from undersea storms.

And it reeks,
the stench of repressed rot,
distended veins,
nauseous souls.

It shines,
The explosive engine
of all creation.
Burning, blinding, yellow beauty,
scorching my dusty eyes
which wither and bleed
but shed not a tear.

Sunday, June 7, 2015

Et in Arcadia, Ego

The moon
 written in paper veins
Whistling grass
Your skin
Cool
Now warm
Brine
Tanned, stretched
Twisted onto bone
Bound
Now flapping free
Your being enveloped
And voided
Nothingness
Rooted
In your stalks.

Smoothness crumples
No one sees
redness
Pulsing
Directionless
Searching for the Nebula
Which, once blue
Told us of entropy
Of cold distance
Disparate
Disappearing
Darkness

Matters.

Sunday, May 31, 2015

Drilling for Tetroleum

This poem escaped
in the instant
it took
for Id to fall
s
i
x
f
ee
t.

Knots unravel,
feet run aground.
The mind is exiled
outside water.

Off come the smiles
from the oily face
Urania eclipses
the guided missive.

You don't speak.
Nor do I.
You are busy knotting threads
Thinking that you knit.
To you, they are the same now.

You have tied yourself to me.
My caesars will not cut.

Thursday, April 2, 2015

From the tram-tracks



A thousand nights
Unslept
Unfeeling the weight
of a thousand years
that lay on Her lover.

A crane flies along the skyline
Where steeltowers meander
Where Orion hunts no more.

The lepers are gone
From the hydrants.
The forlorn Doel whistles in vain
at constellations smothered by smog,
at banished Shamas
at screeching Starlings.

Can I be the sand
on his tired feet
Or
Seathing saline hands
scraping his being?

My beloved’s face
was carved in lines
not of Sravasti.

The engine roars,
vibrating wings
a memory.
We totter along
through owling woods
strewing entrails
along the asphalt.

Halfway (to Namkhana)
Sun-skinned,
She turns to me
Smiles:
“My name is Arunima Sanyal
Were you looking for me?”

Thursday, March 12, 2015

Les somnambules

Devenir poète,
C'est, devenir un fragment poétique
Qui se forme de feu
Se tue
S'efface

Une mèche de fumée
Montante
Parmi les nuages
vue par les cils
du moitié endormi...

*******************************

The Sleepwalker

Becoming a poet
Is to become a poetic fragment
Which forms itself from fire
Kills itself
Self-erases

A strand of smoke
Climbing
Among the clouds
seen through the eyelashes
of the half-asleep.

Sunday, November 30, 2014

Wedding season

Bougainvilleas blossom
on wintersunned carpet,
Grass
Growing into
The edges
of awakening.

Her man reads, writes
of the undead, unsickening
As the morning she-naigh
Breaks the cold nightly dawn.