No one’s asked me how I am doing in a while
In Bengali, we usually say, “Cholche”
Meaning – And so it goes
I have never really felt at home in my house
Accommodated, but not welcome,
Truth be told, I felt quite alone
The Krishnachura by my
window was felled in the storm
A dump of sand now – where it used to be
I hunt for signs around this house now
I know there are
places, where I hid bits and pieces, of me.
drunken mishaps are a souvenir from the past
I can’t seem to let go of
you didn’t want our demons to meet
so you left with yours
leaving me with mine
This morning I woke up
with a mouthful of regret
I stayed in bed, for most of the day,
and thought how a restraining order
was probably invented for the likes of me
failing at goodbyes so hard
we make a fool of ourselves
I wanted to leave you wildflowers
and a Kazuo Ishiguro paperback
with the gateman downstairs
Write you a note that said
“This is farewell – if you want it to be”
I won’t anymore
So I’m leaving you this poem instead
Here’s hoping I don’t end up still,
leaving you those flowers at the gate.
Writing poetry to find the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can and wisdom to know the difference. Actually, negate that last bit. I never know the difference.
Forgetfulness is magic
we live & die a little each day
I used to think it tragic
now I wouldn’t have it any other way
It’s the remembering
that makes life tedious
Who said what – did what – to who(m)
Hoarding these memories thinking they’re precious
Isn’t the moment just as precious too?
I’d never thought of forgetting this way before
I see it now, for the gift that it is
What are cliches, but oft repeated truths?
Ignorance yields the highest bliss.
Calcutta Summers pass by in a stupor
No wonder I have so many memories – unaccounted for!
You sleep to wake & wake to sleep
ruminate on all the social graces, you’d promised to keep.
Day turns into night, Night rolls into day
The only thing to do really, is stargaze – and pray for rain.
When the Sun is thankless, air constricted,
You’ll know those dreary months are near
Not much to do besides lie about,
and wait for the heat to disappear.
Of course, the summer storms are pretty –
Our seasonal maritime guests ..
Her lot dances about with thunder,
And in lightning, they come dressed!
Riding winds that know no speed limits
Or respect for traffic signs;
Even the Sun hides when they beckon for the day
Behind dark clouds, and a fury – almost divine.
No there’s really nothing remarkable, besides,
about Summer in the East,
You drowse about, as even us, infidels, pray
for the Goddess to tame this beast.