O Poverty!

Thou hast been nigh for years.

Thou hast fed and watched me grow.

Yet tender do I seem to thee?

Thou dost embrace me so!

THE BLANK SPACE

I look out the open door sitting with my laptop on a lazy Sunday noon…and I see perfection.  People, young and old, are walking across my view real busy- one of them, a middle-aged stores-person is carrying a bucket full of clothes out to dry. I peek and observe. Briskly yet diligently he hangs them, making space for his hard-fought results of tenacity among other similar results which have been hanging there since a bit earlier. He is relatively late this time by his standards. Perhaps he would be looking to make up for the loss by spending less time in the shower. Or perhaps not, considering how important a Sunday-shower is. Not one molecule would be left unclean.

Some others, having finished doing all of those things, are moving in towards the dining area to give the first signs of ‘lunch-time’ to the cooks. And still some others, the more sensible ones, are waiting in the T.V room. The post-lunch session of the India-England test match is surely helping matters.

I come back to my laptop again. A half-written poem stares at me blankly. I look around and find myself in a half-lit room. I am surrounded by a half-finished breakfast, a half-colored painting, a half-open jar of chocolate-chip biscuits…I have half-settled issues! Only the door is fully open. I look out again and now I realize I’m yet to take my shower. I want to get inspired by these people- examples of single-mindedness. How can everything be in such perfect order? The answer is simple… if only one is so inclined.

Back on my laptop and the blank spaces are getting on my nerve, FINALLY! I look out the door and I see examples. I learn a lot from these examples… I learn how to waste a Sunday!

INFINITE DISCOVERIES

I slept the night off after the discovery,

But I wanted to go through it again.

So I jumped across the oceans.

And I drove past the chains.

And there I was again, where it had all started.

Right at the end of the final subway.

Familiar tunes spoke from the concert.

I watched the wild tides from the doorway.

Then I went backstage and I found the page.

I tried to reach for it but my feet won’t move.

The music had stopped. Just the crowd cheered now.

The lyrics had hypnotized their fickle mood.

“Hello my brother,” he said, in his glorious voice.

I turned around. The star of the show had come.

“What do you need?” he asked. “Is it peace?”

I said, “I need no peace, nor no wisdom.”

“I need to write my songs on that page too.”

He started laughing funny but I had to talk.

But then a crazy girl came and jumped upon him.

I think he was stoned, he could barely walk.

He collapsed with the girl, and he blacked out.

Upfront, the stage crashed down too.

The show had reached its high point.

“I love this part,” I said, “as all lovers do.”

“So how’re you gonna write? It’s so dark in here,”

From the frenzy, came that voice again.

But the star was down. It wasn’t him.

But it was him, it didn’t sound feigned.

“It’s me over here.” It was the page, blank and ready.

“Can you write in the dark?” it asked.

“I’ve never thought about it,” I said.

The page stared at me. And I thought, at last.

There was peace inside and peace outside.

It seemed like some long galaxies of empty universe.

The crazy girl then switched on the lights.

The page was still there but the house was hers.

“It’s beautiful,” she said from the doorway.

“What?” I asked, and I looked around.

Words from the page flew. She had caught some of them.

“Those are my words,” I thought. “Am I still down?”

WANDERING SLAVES OF THE HILL

Distant squeals up in the hilly meadows.
 Loudness rectified by old green graves.
 Tall yellow leaves upon fading shadows,
 Call upon the other wandering slaves.

 The wind has been lurking quietly around,
 Waiting for replies from my friends.
 But my breathing makes the only sound,
 Apart from the owl making amends.

 The huge, grey rock shows a wide crack,
 Where the coloured spider starts a home.
 Maybe they know of the forgotten track
 Which has led me into this dome.

 A quick glance at the horizon far away,
 To gather a few reasons to save.
 There is no horizon. And I shall stay.
 I shall answer for the wandering slaves.

ARIJIT MUKHERJEE- FLOATING FLAVOURS: THE HEAVY BLUE DOOR

ARIJIT MUKHERJEE- FLOATING FLAVOURS: THE HEAVY BLUE DOOR: I peeked through the gray sun-bathed vent Of the heavy blue door- for repair ‘t was meant. Coal dust floating merrily in the morning, Hey, ...

THE HEAVY BLUE DOOR

I peeked through the gray sun-bathed vent

Of the heavy blue door- for repair ‘t was meant.

Coal dust floating merrily in the morning,

Hey, and on a winter Sunday, with little warning!

The door made a shy, embarrassed groan,

As I pulled it in and the greeters were shown.

All their smiles smelt of a refreshing, warm flavour-

Honest. Tomorrow would do me no such favour.

The wood has been falling off in chips

And the steady, agonizing coming-to-grips.

I thought. Skillful to say the least-

Just concealing the early morning beast.

Chocolate In The Mud

Hey doc, there's a patient in your head.
Look out it's quite a generous spread.

I have all the notes you might need.
And a blank face for you to read.
Do you see the hills in the background?
I think that's where we should meet.

Hey doc. Hang back a few light years.
Come back when a big bang nears.

Wonder what's that briefcase you've got.
Files and liquids and what not.
Do you see clouds up on the ceiling?
No you're too busy havin' a feeling.

Love and hurt need a lot of explaining.
I'm fine with my rainbow-painting.
Now if you can keep your limits shut,
You might see the chocolate in the mud.