firstborn

after a long hard winter

of creative unproductivity

when the first thaw arrives

warming your inner poet

 

when springs back to life

the hibernating bear

now ready to ravage you

with its claws of intricacy

 

when sun rays seep in

through the cracks melting

the ink frozen in the unlit

depths of your being

 

those first few verses

those tentatively conjured lines

will sneak in through the threshold

descendants of the same bloodline

 

like a newborn you hold it close

the first structured or free set

of verses that you’ve given birth to

after being barren for so long

 

so you cradle it like a firstborn

against your aching chest

throw yourself into

the wind howling indoors

 

the newborn was just

the warm-up poetry

there’s a whole summer

waiting to be delivered

perfection

the perfect
never appealed to me
it’s what i’ve grown
to be an atheist about

neither does it exist for me
nor would its existence
affect my non-believer views
(it would however deconstruct
the architecture of my perception) 

the chiseled and the polished
the moulded and the sanded
their reality being as natural
as nature being an aggressive 
all-life-consuming system of chaos

as unlikely
as it is unprogressive

and when even the earth
lacks inclination to be
perfectly spherical

what could possibly
convince me to worship 
this phenomenon
of perfection

man-made for all its
conforming qualities
chaining us to cohesive
rituals and oppression

perfection is like myths
found in books from eras
long buried under dust
and chronicles fictionalized
to fit fantasies and prophecies
to entice and stray

perfection they claim
is not what i’m describing
perfection is different
it has its own perfect definition

but how can that
what never existed
have a mould of its own

this entity like language
has changed over centuries
adapting to change but not
letting go of its sadistic ventures

over the ages it has been victimizing
a different body every time
of the society 
by becoming the society itself

piercing through chinks of armour
of the valiant and gallant
turning qualities into requirements

a must of this and a must of that
concocting recipes of perfection
to deceive generations

it has taken many forms 
branching out
diversifying 
and if anything
instead of believing in its absolutism
or letting it command us
i would much rather urge others 
to condemn it
rob it of its power to rule

hence i refuse to believe
in its existence 
that i have so fondly outlined

for it was
is
and shall remain till falsified
a powerful figment
a man-made
catastrophe

Dally

Don’t let thoughts of letting go,

Molest your peace of mind.

Don’t let death seduce you into its outstretched arms.

If you wish to consort with pain,

Do so by dreaming dreams that can break,

But also allow you the pleasure of rebuilding.

Let the ‘p’ that tantalizes your overthinking,

Be of possibilities and not problems.

Don’t scoff at the prospect of befriending hope.

All it ever wanted was to be of help,

When whorls of addictive sleepless thinking abused you,

Substantially bullying you into seeking sanctuary,

Under the deceptive security blades could offer.

The warmth you yearn was never externally present,

It has always been internally accessible.

Intangible but susceptible to your needs.

A light you’ve carried by subconsciously disguising it,

As worthlessness and a self-deprecating opinion,

Of your true worth that is a hundredfold,

Brighter a flame than your self-immolation.

You say it’s all clichéd and unconvincing,

But undecorated truths are always preferable,

To court with all their nobility than ornamented lies,

That caress your sense of reality and perception.

For once dally with pain that accompanies,

The rebuilding of your structure at the hands,

Of your own novice architecture.

Let the uncertainty be a guide pushing you towards,

The untried pursuits of happiness,

You do not believe to exist outside of imagination.

But if you want to believe anything,

Know that you are the candidate most deserving,

Of your friendship and kindness,

That you are unwilling to bestow upon yourself.

Leaking

I’m bent over the edge

My spirit is leaking out

Dribbling down this stony

Bench of respite

Collecting into a contorted puddle

Of human emotions

The bottled screams now liquefied

Pour out my nerve endings

Breaths I try to beat out of myself

Barely escape my exhausted windpipe

Bleary, beaten, just a human shaped pulp

Looking for believable horizons

Not mirages conjured in desperation

This surely isn’t the true definition of

Pouring my heart out

But it’s one literal, lateral, sprawling way

To do so as I prepare myself

To wake up from this waking

Leaking

Dream

 

Process

Into how many more butterfly-skins 
Do we need to metamorph 
Before we reach our final?
Will it be final at all?
So many skins we’ve shed
So many new forms we take
As we evolve
Because we evolve
A shrine could be built 
For and from our past selves
Shells and scales and shadows
From times gone and lost
Losses that were achievements
Like milestones marking transformations 
And every time it still hurts to regrow
Muscles and rewire our brains
As the beginnings of newfound strength 
Jut out of our backs like wings
In their initial growth 
And we step through the steps
Of transcendence
A circle this is of circles yet to come
There is no final avatar to obtain
This is an ongoing 
And forever continuing process 
More cocoons to weave
More corpses to leave
And like they say 
Butterflies feed off cadavers 
So maybe and for sure
The past that propels the present towards future
The past that once was the present and future
Sacrifices itself for our sustenance
Because our present in its hunger
And our future in its shrewdness
Swallow whole the past
And leave nothing indigested

 

_____

 

Dedicated to my big brother Tamojit. Love you, bro.

Backward

I’m walking backwards

In circles

I have no story to tell

I’m direction-less

And maybe so are you

So forgive me

If you can relate

And I’m sorry

That we’re not walking

Backwards together

It would be good

To have a hand to hold

When gravity starts playing

Tricks with your head

It would be nice

And I’m telling you

It would be nice

To trust again

But you are far

Wherever you are

And I’m here

Writing my plotless story

But we could start

By trusting ourselves

Again

So by the time

We meet

Dear friendly relatable stranger

We can trust each other

And be okay

Because while we’re going

Backwards in circles

Chances are

We’ll spiral out

And cross

Paths

And I’m telling you

It would be nice

It would be okay

Because for once

In a long time

We have something

To look forward to

No wait

Something

To look

Backward to