Clouds in the valley...

  How much have you travelled, I wonder The last I saw you, You were at Ajanta, From the cave top, your heavenly view   Those eyes, those curious eyes Of course I couldn’t forget, Years had passed by Until we again met   Faraway, this time – Far from home, you and me In a French museum, holding Champa’s heart But you dancing in your liberty   Celestial, they say That’s what you are, Apsaras of space – and time, I would add Beauty eternal, in every star   Yet, on your time in little Earth I must admit, deep in my heart You have come a long way – far indeed Your footsteps - a trail of hidden art   On the Golden Road that spread from home Your gaze has travelled to distant lands Those eyes, necklace, dress of head Those gracely sways of timeless hands   I know not when next we will meet In some hidden jungle or a cave? Or maybe in a museum housed Of whatever it is that time could save ...

       I remember the symphony of a cloudy day When the Atlantic’s indigo blew, In stark contrast to the chalks of white - Caught unawares, us tourists few   From pebbly beaches to slopes of green, On Normandy’s seas that melancholy mourn - Layers of chalk in arches three A philosopher needle, all on its own   And just like that, the winds picked up, Like a banshee from the English seas, In winds as those, no shelter helps – And you seek liberty when the rains don’t cease   So we walked that day, all over drenched In Etretat’s chalks of layered white (Even Monet would have felt divined that day, In passing clouds, the play of light)   We drenched that noon, under the bird of white Notre Dame chapel closed in smile, Sudden peace in the winter’s warmth Blues and whites, mile after mile   In storms as these, some find their Gods, Some lose their ways to find new ones, Others salvage their bro...

    (Bengali for discussion, am extended group conversation, often involving friends gathering to chat informally; considered a key part of Bengali culture)   There were times when I would look past the throngs of men All in animated chatter - Salvaging politics, arts, and sports Though they knew all, it was in vain   What intensity, what insanity! Every word of the Statesman tied In thick invisible tomes: Discussed, debated, dissected And the Argumentative Bangali - justified   Hugo Chavez is the messiah, I would hear Others still stuck in Soviet’s glow Would sadly recollect Gorbachev While the younger ones looked askance,   Beyond Pele, they discussed Ronaldo   From the birth pangs of EU The adolescence of the sleeping dragon To the deathbed of Jugoslavia: For questions yet, the Adda Already would have a solution   But I had no patience for these antel talks What collective wastage of tim...

  That date of the year, When a lump comes up in the throat again, Not because of what you couldn’t see But for all that we couldn’t gain   Your tales, plastered on every wall Ever since our childhood days The rally to Delhi, the ask for blood, Deep memories we cannot erase   Despite that, what is it we chose? Cowardice, unambition, being small - Unable to conquer our own selves Forget about a nation’s call   Every year, this day The reminder comes, yet one more time – Wake up, arise, do something Inaction is also a crime   With deeper sighs, the pen stumbles Emptiness scribbled on a page, Perhaps one day, will dissolve The empty skies, the invisible cage   When one day, we will be worthy Of calling you our hero, Till then, this repentance stays our only hope Let these tears never stop to flow…   23 rd January, 2025

Introduction to 'Unfettered'   This is an anthology of blank verses - my first. A large part of poetic beauty often comes from its rhyme, rhythm and the mellifluous flow of syllables – growing up reading the works of Wordsworth, Milton and Shakespeare, any child immediately attaches poetry to the singsong nature with which it flows, ebbing and rising like a wave of words, a tide of temperaments neatly tied in clean neat sentences with matching syllables, iambs and trochees. Such has been my style as well – the composition of matching words, syllables, contained within mathematical stanzaic precision renders a heightened sense of creativity – half the satisfaction of composing a Shakespearean or Spenserian sonnet lies in the ability to match the complex rhyme scheme, leave alone choice of words or inner core emotional prompt. Indeed, poetry invokes a high sense of craftsmanship and creatorship. But the moment you choose to write a blank verse, all the complex, centuries-...

    (Japanese art of repairing broken objects, often ceramic pottery or glass. Traditionally, gold lacquer is used to piece shards together again, creating a more beautiful object through the acts of breaking and repair.)   We are all broken pieces, Lying asunder. Our limbs, veins, sinews Scattered on our paths. But mostly, it is our hearts Broken into invisible shards Fallen houses in disrepair Though the walls may seem intact   Some of us, splintered By storms we couldn’t face, Or by disguised vandals Whom we welcomed as our own But most of us lie broken From within, not without Our own selves our nemesis Crying within in grief   But it is not in lying broken That our faults lie – Our sorrows burden for We await for ourselves To turn anew, reborn in enchantment Or worse still, We await for others To join us once again   The truth, sad though it is None will rescue us But ourselves – We need...