It’s been quite a while
since I’ve been able
to float on word-clouds,
impregnate them with
cascades of each day’s
flavor and fervor,
overweigh them with
tasteless scentlessness.
Colorless pours of
impartial pallor
fall onto mute cords,
long silenced from drought,
flush them with new hues
of ground, unbolting
boundless blushing blooms.
The listening apparatus
Is silent –
Ahead of sound –
Your eyes gush
Like awakened
Blake.
From: kolkata, west bengal, India
About me: What would I be saying If I said, ‘The sky is true’? Would the dream pass more slowly If I lowered my voice, bassooned my vowels? No end to wonder, I find, And the evening mist is still. I talk in allegory when I speak to myself. I walk up the hill – my spirits rise. The process ‘saying’ again Is always about itself, about something Other than its content Its statement and assertion. I reach with every word For the truth of what I find— I miss and then I say something else. The reader, myself included, Gets only the altered after-saying. Where is the sky in all this--? The measure wavers – the link is broken – Disturbed, a trial of what is, Wanders, palpitates, grows worn In its youth— Like a design by William Morris Or brothel in Joyce’s arcane language.
Words are like clouds indeed
They come in monsoon in good stead
And hurry away with trade breeze
Letting the mind freeze
Its own thoughts in its womb
Like a child left unborn
To face the dumb scorn
Of a world that turned into a tomb....
These words come like waves
Rippling out of the world's graves
In hightide of expectation
Of ruins giving birth to a nation...
hail hope
hail thee
and thy pen....