Arun Uddalok at the Face of Crumbling Down

In Search of Buno Ramnath

The Blind Monk and the King

Musing on Shopping Mall

Lime Maker of Basapara













Sough

I discover sloughs
everywhere.
A season of moulting .

No snakes around,
still getting I am
frightened in sleep

In the world peopled
by reptiles,
I look for
two fire- stones
and a piece of cork




Rhinoceros

Rhinoceros break in sudden rage
tumbling down, over the rocks.

The hunters only know the sun-rise,
its chemistry into the boiling soup,
does never know how a body
grows up out of an anecdote of wood.

The gold-ring of beliefs
go deep into the mouth

Dolls are found scattered around
the forgetful rhinoceros.




Rhizomatic Fragrance: Nowhere Destination

at the very beginning my eyes are driven to the labyrinth of seven starts an intangible grace walks around a tree of berries depicted in my eyes in paints of the whirlwind a baul sings for me in my yard miles of winding crop-lands a prolonged bargaining in the grinder-like mind frogs’ afternoon-chorus in the rain-soaked field a group of laboring with warmth I pick on palms the face uttering flowery words in a playful mood, in the light of drenched moon I pour some liquid then like a hungry a blanket of clouds I shiver in cold very bitterly though I don’t have any still my soul is not meaningless becoming a root and making myself connected to roots and to my forefathers and offspring I am a bridge a river flow and at last a phoenix and I really know that on behalf of me as my substitute someone will come to the world to do some works of promises a to party one more information all trees know that it never has gone to any debate on environment all attempts of composing hospital from line to line end in producing only run-on-lines here we have no halt for a few moments at least once in life the lure of becoming truthful overwhelms us beware of imitation this warning left aside makes us forget if it is a Sunday or all clothing like grateful to the meteorological offices traditional forecasts and sharp when clothing later change smoothly all inscriptions about hospital seem to be cruelly incomplete and the throng of pale rickety children around the child specialists or the narrowing distance between the labour-rooms and the morgues disposable syringes get distinctly printed in row of lines in this tube town from this corner to that I am a weary soul encircled by lifes impetuous seas and all around from the lamppost top the bird starts winging for the horizon all at once a number of music notations enter the very heart of the singer no birds on our way up and down not even a stripe of sea beach still we can catch the music of a male cuckoo sitting on an invisible branch of a tree a wrecked soul comes out of its songs those who comprehend know those who know see and those who see realize thus the planet moves round dreams of bright days play on the violin of union of race a pervading shiver in the body the soul utters in its every beat the final dream such utterence and music of our soul will never cease to exist as many times as possible I try to juxtapose the place of love and the singer but on each occasion some sort of chaos come to reign the palace collapses to pieces to pieces all on a sudden out of the music emergfes a dream cottage on entering which it comes to ones notice that four walls are made of music notations whenever you shake the walls with your two hands colourful showers initiate the afternoons to nostalgic adolescence when the shadow of light starts moving to and fro on the bank of the seas of beauty waves of light get unruly the agony of in the ghusty wind the world does not know how to love yet we love the world and it is no fault and so we build up cottages on the crumbling banks and unlimited hope awakens in us, again have you seen ever a river lying on another submerged into some cold waiting it seems to be a wrong those marks wait under ilas fading memories the local? ? ? is yet to come every outing is a profound retuning to the colse vicinity of a few words and see every word is a pat of a bridge me I slip on mos
metimes I hand like a water colour painting from a huge nail ignorant so I like desperately to fire the pent up agony I take some telephonic help to ascertai
e thereafter arranging the lines fof poem I concentrate on a religious ballad and prepare a dissertation on a note worthy ape and dedicate it to the madcap then he overwhelms me with his appreciating observation that the composition is very truly wonderful soul compartmen
rned to be a campus no cobweb any more exists in depth of my heart a flame of symphony in it flesh nothing falls short of any thing only some want for human souls looms large here a piece of shore among fairy tale
sand to be sung flutterings of leaves prepared myself a doe in a cage I dive in the forest after silent rituals on emb
our neck a santal fold tune emerges out and skilled body easily moves mahua flowers fall thick do the birds calllikewise in the gajan-fair of fullmoon tearing who speaks behag or iman in the package of darkness before full comprehension hands fall off from the neck movements stops and a moving in our hole again the arrow struck bird w
ng any more even a child knows this truth yet to narrate it anew and to present it with equal jest is the great duty of it is a simple job to her it is her natural ability to inject music notations to human blood written by butterflies of songs on the flowers but theres a good news any one can easily lie on sandalcot to kill agony of separation in a lonely night the small poem I sent didn’t contain the word postscript now while sending my research paper on kitchen I am using signifier although my conscience is not prepared to give room to stories of our aged city or of boat rides or of moral turpitude there in its vacancy rather here again I engrave the fables of our web tangled living of fog emiting friendship and of how we break into unavoidable certainties or signs plato had no lady love he would offer his disciples a handful of fire wind sown truth earth conceiling life in our republic smart bike youths read easily
ic love from the web sites of wind seven colours of the silent lamp smashing the heavy fog a dew fires some fire stones and the man then calm, upright and sharp people clap to see a crow’s skill in construction, a love bed strong self pride moving in the wind getting warmer in the slanting rays getting drenched to the skin yet looked at
oo self confident tidbits thinking of love this birth, cultivation of life this determination the parting of hair of the girl suffering for becomes soft gradually with the words, which remains left an ambulance in the gurn of a hill route a zigzac of strong light receeds a sanatorium in the distance on birthday a rubber ball writes a
erwise it jumbs and frets too much done a pull of two poles tears the garland wearing afternoon a man is seated shephali flowers fall from his back grey twilight bursts into pieces a golden fire jumps to sink now its night have wasted the morning of my life according to my whims so now I dont have earnings or its ways when the evening settles down I place the stars to my sweet will no taste in love any more so I keep my shadow a witness darkness around why the dream riseup broken w
rooted your coutenance a black stone churned out of the river bed my cargo capsized in yesterdays spate here you like
g in my apartment but my two feet stand still the sun as red as the forest flame falls off on the rivers estuary and the bemused crow gets warmth from it moves towards the horizon to another seeks peace of living its cawing lingers all over the landscape



Melting Shadows


Red monsters, blue monsters play in the surreal nights
of our private world that gradually break into bubbles
when rains fall on the stones, sands and pebbles.
Who stands on the shore of such a monumental stream
of dreams and wishes? Birds disappear into darkness.
Mornings dawn on the crumbling structures,
in such a time, when we can mend nothing but wait
and see how water moves to the river, our own, private world.

Red monsters play, blue monsters dance
and we who have lost our toys in the flow of rivers
grope at darkness sing for them.
We sing together but no chorus we can make.

I dreamt last night of two blue dolls emerging out of my body
that stood before mirroring water and narrated it to my figure
without head
.
What do I look for here in darkness? Only headless shadows move,
laugh and threaten. Fear is now religious. Frightened squirrels
hide, cats mew here and there.
My land, O my land! Where are two brothers
who could slaughter monsters? Shadows melt into shadows.

Green monsters, red monsters play in our dreams.
Where are our anchors, oars and birds, fragrant and tender?

We live in our private woods and feel dejected and alone
when we move in solitude. A bird, sitting on a pole looks at its shadow
in the depth of water.

Seated at the corner of a porch we look at the cactus,
dew-soaked and pale.
The buffaloes come and go in our dreams.
Summer evening moves
and basks in neon light I stand crest fallen. Knives move along
the smooth canvas of the sky.
Donkeys bray, terrified. Xerox machines copy our heads.
We move headless. Who are those, walking
along the long canal and throw paper-bits to water?

In darkness the faces are lost. I long for my own face. Where that? My mirror!

Coming close to water I whisper to my own shadow.
A golden bird flies over my head. I return home and stand
in the yard, wide and open.
I look at me, I weep.

Telephone rings repeatedly. The distant azan is a slow bird call.
The lizard ticks beside a wall clock, non-functioning.
A frog croaks continuously from the corner of a water pool.
Water gurgles out of the rain pipe. Two kids get drenched under fall.
The photographs of the Thirparapu fall remind me of a few days
of my life I spent in search an oriole in the woods.


You could look brighter. The burden of life seems
to be heavy on your face. And we have forgotten the seas.
We have forgotten the trees. We have forgotten those photographs.
And apples fall into pieces over the sharp knife in our private chamber.
With these words, I change the batteries of the wall clock and put the raincoat
hanging from a nail. Who rocks the cradle no violently?

Horses look for water, ask for light.
We only wait for crutches. Our seeds don’t burst into seedlings.

Kastanka, the Chekhovian dog knocks at the obsessed door.
His faithful hands care the human baby. Walking along the canal
I move towards the Kankalitala, a part of her chopped off body fell.


Two slams run across the fieldand disappear into the sugarcanes.
I own their shadowson the still under of canal.I think and more.

Returning home I sit by a candle.Dwness the tress darker.
Thus we live, survive and laughto the sad faces around.
And in the morning we put on the morningwe put on masses and go
to the places where we meetother faces, sed and made-up.

We have lost our voiceinto the frost of hazels.
We have lost our helmet into the frost of hovers.
We have lost our clothing to the forest of hoses. and have put on the dresses
left by the ghosts adoring.

Still in our dreams birds row Still in our dreams birds sing.
Still in our dreams birds turn to gold.

We units for birds to come We unit for rivers to flow.
We unit for undreams to visit.

Takes climbing shrubsand I get attached to them.
Attachment doesn’t alwaysspeak of love but hatred,
antipathy and fear too.

Morning sun blanketed by heavy clouds and I
standing by an old welllook at my reflection
dim and very uglyon the well-water.

The paperman throws the morning newsand aks for lastmonth’s bill.
His unrst and busy-nessMove me to recollection.
Recollection of what? I think and think.And I come to conclude
that nothing to be recollected.

Tee the ready. I take tea and news. All on a sudden a ghust of wind
thuds on the window-panes. But no cats are there
to press their faces there. No parts their faces there.
No parts of fogs I see the welland the still air their in.

crows come and to and I look at them
in a queer way. I seem that I amLooking at some lost sows.

Green portcns on the table. Where from do they come?
I sit to think. And them a bird comes
to sit on my wind. A golden clour bird. I start shivering
on my bed.

The slow and steady wins the race. The story of a hare and a tortoise.
And in the marrow of my bone flows a river, a river that
knows the secrets of leaves and those of seeds also.
And now, when it stops raining I listen to the rustling leaves.

Gradually I move forward and catch the sight
of a yellow bird and feel a shiver in my heart.
Water flows over the pebbles.
No star in the sky. I can’t measure my age
and think to wonderhow the days have passed by.

Dreams are ephemeral No, dreams are strong and long lasting.
If not, how the river flows from the hill top to the ocean.
blind pools are cockroaches and grasshoppers.
Now should I come to think of worms, worms living in me.

After rains the snakes bask in the in the bushes,
I gradually move and pick shadows
from the flowing water.

Letters that I recognize and decipher from the stones
cannot hold me back from creating new ones.

Stones do not refuse my love, my affection and my regards.
Smoothly I do love all stones, all peoples all voices
and the very self of my shadow. I discover myself gradually in darkness.