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For whom not even a poem was penned
the one who stayed awake throughout the night
for poem
Praying for a poem to be born
and cries out aloud
in the sorrow of waiting for it
He longed to take poem on his lap
and cradle it to soothe
The one who
was supposed to pen a poem for the one
In his thoughts
the bud never blossomed
perhaps no strength was left
in his fingerjoints
to strum the string of reminder
Perhaps the poet was busy
in opening the crust of the walnut
that someone offered him lovingly
It is just the garden of Indian jujube
on the bank of Gaurang
where’d he get a walnut?
(To Ujjal Borah and Hiranya Lay)
You did not pick up my call
just because the number was unknown
Even did not care to open my message
just because the number was unknown
Before getting introduced
every acquaintance of today
were totally unknown people
One needs a starting point to be acquainted
Perhaps there had been a third person
a nondescript one
the medium of your acquaintance
That catalyst has also been lost
without being noticed
Have you noticed
How the familiar people
have gradually turned unfamiliar
New acquaintance have knocked on the door
Please pick up my call
else I’d have to move away from you
remaining unknown
without even opening the circuit
The migratory birds
arrived late by one month
in Kaziranga
It is the month of December
winter is yet to set in
They have brought over
carrying in their wings
the climatic information
from the other side of the Himalayas
I was waiting eagerly
to hear the sound of cacklings
of the Grey legged geese and the Bar headed geese
flying in formation
like a pointed arrow
Their innate genetic behaviour
also has been in disarray
Else the new generation
would have flown
matching with the calendar of migration
The birds have indicated
circumstances have changed
owing to fault on the part of humans
the air has turned warmer
the extent of better days has been shrinking
Paddyfield of November
As if a water colour painting
Hill after crossing the field
foothills of Bhairabchura
combination of vagrant colours
Islet of champa
mustard yellow
dazzling with sunshine
Let the boat move upstream
From Luit to the mouth of Champa
Let the urban tourists watch
Cattlecart carrying bundles of reaped paddy stalks
The sun will set a little after
On the light orange bosom of the Luit
A whiff of gentle breeze will caress your rosy cheeks
The water colour of November
transient like youth
one should enjoy
when one could
The poet
dreamt of a corpse last night
moving towards the crematorium
riding on a bier
The bier moved along
lying on four shoulders
no one talked
The solitary trail
silently followed
the four pair of legs
The silence of the funeral procession
was far more shrilling
ear deafening
than the two minutes of silence of condolence
The fragrance of mustard bloom
put to sleep
over the bamboo chang
today
his much loved poem
at the corner of the room of the poet
Telling a never ending story
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