Tuesday, June 28, 2011

Bracketcity Complete (Unedited)

Mr. Bean said – Don’t beat around the bush, It’s a long night already, come to the point.

Can we truly reach a point?
I’ve looked at points closely and realized that
except the point itself everything else is beside the point.
So what’s the plan?
Where do we go from here?
Where do we find relevance? be counted?

such is the need for being relevant
even your inhibitions weep in allusions to loneliness
and to think these inchoate poems will
survive their travel through periphery
i never cracked
is always on me

me is a toilet paper
good enough for
an arse and a reference
to an unbiased form of
entombed green memories
--do you remember
-- no I don’t
--it was there
--no it wasn’t

and paradigms of uncertain metaphors shift
to become local versions of
sweet sweet truth
It’s one wonderful evening
it’s not the time to search for coherence in a pomegranate

wouldn’t you rather pick-up a date, drink martinis and listen to
older melodies—versatile enough to both sweep away
and secure the relevance of being naked
in parts


Chiming sovereign beside nostalgia
Bracketcity throws its casts in water
To retrieve shapes of fish
And fish related thoughts
In these days of census

The forecast says-- it shall rain
Let it drizzle at the least in the confines of my senses
I wish good luck to the spilling consciousness
to the bees that hover but never
Settle on the spilling consciousness
-- y’all stay hearty and hale

I am in the mood to find out what happened to missing Sophocles
Relate it to the evening news
yet have to explain the shaved Padre
How consciousness is merely a reluctant religion
In a bitter-gourd farm

A stupid informant secretly asked
About the relationship between Batman & Mr. Bean
Relation !
Relation is a glass jar
Where a comprehensible ecosystem
Layer by layer
Becomes murky
Mr. Bean’s nose is cleaved clean off
By Robin of Sherwood
Robin’s throat is ripped apart
by Mr. Rambo
Mr. Rambo is snatched
By the talons of Rook the Arab
confessions of batman
Dig out silhouettes of Nicolai Gogol
In Rook’s cave
And Gogol returns with
Mr. Bean’s nose

Mr. Bean
Mr. Bean said--life comes a full circle

I am thinking--A circle is a denominator of my own loneliness
pervading through society and landscape
encompassing but leaving things alone to their own loneliness

A light separates time
A light extends time
An indifferent wick ; still
A necessary paper kite
The wind it carries
lights flicker
lights grow
So does my soliloquy
Hello pomegranate, hello loneliness, hello growing up, hello you absolute bracketcity
A Seasoned explorer arrives in bracketcity
It’s my city
And my own hesitations
A sleepiness in a glass jar
See here the sorrows sleep
And units of sorrows float

When you want to get back
You will find walls with imprints of hand
Unbreakable walls whose sole purpose
Of survival is awaiting
a breach

I would rather not enquire about
The meaning and source of celebrations on
this fall-day this spring-day
The paper kite that drifts away
Keeps track of all incidences of color
The light shrinks
The light intensifies
In the observatory

A knife is placed in
the folds of my hesitation and
the units of sorrows beckon

See these mournful wall-songs ! These were written for the sea-horses in 739 BC. The civilization was then dependent on the labours of sea-horses. They tilled the ocean floor, recycled nutrients. The Carthaginian fleet started a bio-war. They brought a ferocious species of Diatoms to these waters. These Diatoms released their hitherto-unknown neurotoxin and killed all the adult horses. In the dead pouches of male horses they infested the brains of new-born horses and turned them cannibal. After a thorough collaborative research that great mind Archimedes, Mozart and Mehdi Hassan composed these songs and implanted them in the vocal cord of dolphins. It’s said that these songs started a madness in the diatoms and forced them to commit suicide. However, according to Descartes, it’s wrong to associate complex behaviours such as madness and suicide—specific to complex animals like human, lemmings and female Indian elephants-- to Diatoms; a rather simple class of algae. Descartes believed these songs to be wave-based enzymes that dissolved the bonds between silicon dioxide, amino acids and complex carbohydrates in the diatom cell wall and killed them.

Sophocles was narrating. It was raining outside. Rain was steadily becoming a universe.
Daft and clever
Like a blinded metaphor
Bracketcity loiters along these plains

a host of ways travel to your happiness
like reconfirmed sense of security
like reminiscence

there was a theatre here
now there is a graveyard
once there were revolts
against revolts
now incandescent peacocks
roaming mildly pecking

a vague smell of spent cartridges
hovers from the lake. Glimpse of a rickshaw
a slice of the begum-saheba

adam’s apple bobs
in this day of reminiscence

bracketcity shakes all the water off

Beside these writings my written feelings tremble
In these woods dense as friendship
The shadow-oriented poems tremble
Oh, I am truly well in the most descriptive manner
Beside my wellbeing my writings tremble

This is a documentary about a white and a dark world
Bracketcity, don’t you question the fallibility of my sense of seasons.
A change hits Bracketcity
An indefinite boundary
Is placed
A necessary breach
The soul of the boundary
The souls of breach

All compromises are getting accustomed to
flesh, season, ambition
in wrong but necessary solutions

Beside the train-track ropes and razors
Are turning opaque
Becoming usable
Then talk, -- like a confession
Talk as if it’s all about to end

Here is light and its utensils
Here is night and its utensils

Away, there goes night and light hand in hand

Their discarded utensils are turning ordinary
Turning into necessities

See this humble spoon of ours
Even if all ends
its waterstains will never be erased
Bracketcity, who am I
Whose ego & consolation
Whose inanimate stone & hammer

The more I impart distance
My mask resembles me more
Exactly like me it tolerates and
Sows feelings

Perhaps I realized wrongly
The light that belongs to a rally
Is identical to the light that belongs to an individual mask
or face – only they are produced in different ovens

These to and fro walks between mask and face
Have impaled me dead
on a slow and knotted venture
Mr. Bean said--
Go easy on these thoughts
as all they lead to is amassing
fear and paranoia

my innards know – this testimony that
the stone yields to the hammer-
is a conspiracy
the stone yields to its own uncertainty
and the hammer yields to its elemental metaphor
Oh I truly believe everything is alive
including you, me, this poem, the stone,
the hammer
It's just that we don’t own a bulletin board
that floats
Mr. Bean said— You need to understand the other side. However futile it may be, the humane urge to define/make sense of anything and everything is imperative, despite the irresolution. This process eventually leads you to accept the futility but not without relevant questions. These questions redefine what you essentially are.
Copper flowers in the sepia-city
Bronze wheels
On a snowy day,
I am not thinking about a potter’s wheel
In terms of its heavy and balanced relevance
I am thinking about its infectious
Spatiality that follows no definition
Thinking about future of the wheel
Past of the wheel
Before the snowfall
After the snowfall
trappings are quite common in
this landscape
routinely evaluated
brimming with life
and the trapper never asks for
your ID
It's not the destination
but the framework of a sustainable prose.
avid ears
wet ideas
punctate words that
give shape to a cemetery
lingering in the shadow of
hallowed windows
Realizations come, sit on my bedside
And the air becomes opaque
Feelings fade

I wonder when Incidents
will attain fulfilment
like the scenes

Mr. Bean said--All realizations are interpretation of data acquired by your senses. Since, all senses are suspect, realizations attained through them are deemed uncertain, suspect.
Those indispensible errors
of kitchens brothels
were used to construct
the rules concepts
concept derived structures
and I have exposed my back to
sharp lances with no purpose in mind
I have noticed
Every single wound is different and distant
yet the inevitable tendency of
a wound is to attract other wounds and
construct a plurality

I have exposed my wounded back to
the sun
and adjacent to dusk a paranoid dawn rises
We were sad and satisfaction
did cast its shadow on us
On shed snake-skin
A deluded mongoose’s shadow

note this inchoate separating line
Its propensity moves so fast that
It seems stationary

This inchoate line casts its shadow
On my indivisibility

We stored our silence in a sand-clock
Our shadows did all the talking
“This is the sudden road to Rome whose Shadow builds a pavement/ it purges, it lurks in corners, it’s never shy of bereavement “—this song was composed by Rabindranath Tagore in 1922. City-lore says it was originally written by Kamal Chakrabarty in 2003 and Tagore, quite the far-seer, adopted the song in 1922. Colonialists vested a lot of interest in the Shadow and employed Jean-Luc Godard as its surveyor. In 1522, Godard made that memorable documentary on the eternally violent units of the Shadow – “Shadow building; a whispering art”—which is known as the first kaleidoscope ever made.
I saw the shadow yesterday – in a Fotoshop. It was wearing a young Macintosh. Yesterday, it didn’t rain anywhere in the world although repeated thunderclaps were broadcasted in Radio.
Eventually it all boils down to comprehension
even if you spell it all
it bothers at spots
marooned and wise
memories trying to decrypt their memories
I have spilled enough to know
no memory is worth courting, hanging
out with -- in a backyard sun
and then
there are memories that are
felled futures

a tea-cup that never went back to China
This city
will enable you to write
these green faces
percolating light through
green eyes
silent green words
leaching down
dead plants
Hey dense and pedantic consciousness
I am not facile enough
To follow
Although my habits are facile
In their designs no pistons of light
Weave an incident

And they preach – O revered mundanity, O my true sanity
And the decanter and the decanter's metaphor and its vulnerability and its innerself sloshing at the hand's approach and the hand, its guarded manicure and the featureless hesitation travelling from the hand to the decanter and the sloshing innerself succumbing to the hand's lonliness and its nowheredom and the etymology of the inner sloshing and its despotic truewhereness and the mouth’s gullibility and…
Damn it Mr. Bean, It was never my ambition to write a memorable line, I just wanted to write a memorable pause.
Mr. Bean said--
It’s alright to feel cheated as this is the only emotion that truly is existential in principle. By the way, did you know that “morality” is a byproduct of the sense of being cheated.
I don’t understand purity
I know an allegiance
Whose innards are complex and eternally
Against demands and attractions of fundamentality
You who pray, you who preach—know this
My only allegiance is to the spatial, temporal, primal resistance of my headless body.
Yet you float your elemental belongingness in unknown water, yet you acquire newer fears, yet you go searching for avoidable traps, yet you learn to love the arena where you have tasted your gore, bile, soliloquy, pride, helplessness, your continuum … time and again…yet time and yet again…
Mr. Bean said –Epigenetic modifications are heritable changes that take place without altering the genetic sequence – your habits/surroundings may switch off/ on genes by just methylating or demethylating them...
and my fears now know-- I thought, so I became... yet time and yet again...
Oh how my fears inherit their fears...
It hurts ! This petulance
Mr. bean repeats – wisdom is the art of unlearning the obvious…
Fucked up, I am so fucked up…
He says: abandon this drama, theatrics
Come on !
How the fuck, do I unlearn my nourishments
my soul
That undulates on a fulcrum of
Non & Yon
bugger you and bugger all, Mr. Bean
Mr. Bean said-- Ignorance is the strongest force, beware.
Am I merely the interpretation of my own undiscovered coordinates?
An imperfection conjoins the values of this sublingual weather
My only regret is that I am forged to remember
Oh I figured out—to forget is to attain freedom in its truest
Let me appreciate a bronze-flower a flesh-flower
and their muted decorum
striving to bury
the immediate sense of necessity
Interpreting me through my follies
interpreting me through their follies
Baracketcity burns in its own desires
While I am trying to think—I am not apolitical as such,
Well, I am aware of the market politics concerning light & air, gender
And it makes me think—do my light & air, my gender
posses an awareness
Of me ?
Mr. Bean said—Politics is an organic interlude to an imposition of structure. Mind you, although the “imposition” inevitably looks for stability, the structure may turn out different -- decisive or dynamic.
I know an unstructured ruin; I know its passions and crimes
Through melodies and metaphors it has entered our mirrors
These streets you will walk again

Mr. Bean said-- seasons change, so do street signs

a teardrop on a copper jacket
a teardrop on a copperhead

once everything had a season
now a season has it all
Every season has its golden fool-house
Pompous bye-laws
Garish wish-halls
And total vanity
I’ve learnt about wishes
Whose prosaic forms are
the birthplaces of intensely adorned metaphors

Like a mention of the sky

without its tall trees
My knowledge is not shaped like me
My soul is not shaped like me
I can’t think of a poem without a soul
My poem is not like me
I intently observe the souls of my soliloquy
I steal those utterances make them mine
Yet none of them are like me
Bracketcity I have learned this much
My absence will hunt me out

My absence will hunt me down
I will walk these streets again
I know, the future
Of all these streets have walked through me
With their flora-fauna-water-air-land
With their desperations and hatred
With their reasons and garbage

A copperhead and its gold-wire-like
Malleable virtues
I don’t know about piety, virtues or religion
I just know about unpretentious questions
and their decors
whose perfume and glue ripple
in my mute balcony

see this earth that fruits on a tree
we know it as an orange
although its scent, fiber and juice remained
unused in metaphors
Bracketcity, ignorant as I am, it took me 37 years to realize, that you actually need an appropriate language of thought. And now I am dumbstruck by its implications, considering the empty graveyards where a language blossoms, its coherent fences, colors, strictures, variable degrees of freedoms….
The veritable fences and their
rogue signifiers
colors lapping colors
sounds chastising sounds
obdurate values hardly recognizable in
lengthy satin suits, funny hats
it’s a fair basically
an all night affair
carriages and their defined horses


everything is a necessity down here
even this perverse deployment of inevitability
Today’s reader is Piano Kumar, we will listen to his poems in this mild and mellow wine-isle. Our questions will churn his poetry from woodense to 100 years of Tsunami to derived honeycombs. Like any independent soul we obviously won’t want to copy his mild, subtle and telephonic style –we just want to listen to a neuron’s fill and get inebriated.
A mother sea-gull pushes her young from the chimney – the young’s flight, its everything…
Flight & flight’s fossil sibling
Gaps inundated in shadow & light
through yellow trellis
a hint flies quick, flickers away
yet its threads are shy and slow

How you remain healthy in the company of care
Sweaty sun
Youngish chill
Adjacent to these questions

I sit
O enormous “sitting-alone” you are an incessant restlessness
Your periphery is adorned with flea markets, brothels, evening lights
My wellbeing heaps adjacent to your wellbeing
Satiety dissolves neurons
of my body rendered
headless by Gravity

claims of my belongings
are repudiated in leaves and waters
in heavy birthdays
A rejection is all I can carry for my
Itinerant entity, my artisan solitude

I’d rather not think about you
You are that indefinite edge
From where rivers return empty
In absence of stream and flow
my reflections turn droplet-centric

mass and wave
wave and velocity
wave momentum
momentum wave
mass and thought
thought and velocity
wave thought
thought wave

When I think of awakening
I think of sleep
At 12 a.m. in my coffee cup
I notice a 12 p.m.
Churns up
a December in a tropical bird sanctuary

On my earnest non-creation
Your chisel strikes
On this barren field
a hint of crops
on the edges of my cogitation
resistance of your thoughts
Mr. Bean said—resistance is merely a closed door.
Beyond the closed door
you will find
a premonition of this door

although a door is free from usual constraints
a room is not
so is reality

I have decided to cut reality some slack

Just can’t bear this moaning undercurrent

I would pass through the winter
And winter would pass through me

It’s a deal
Where everybody wins

The concretion I’ve acquired
this winter
that superfluous wholeness
has stabbed me weak

The prayers and confessions
Socionomic values of spending and tending
Midnight related darkness
In this peripheral world
of hesitations

(I’ve learnt about some subaltern Giraffes that in February full moon days dig trenches 18 feet deep on empty stomachs. When the moon rises they enter the trenches and start eating grass. A feature on the above matter was broadcasted on a popular NEWS channel on 18th February 2011. The new generations of diasporic Giraffes have welcomed this unique tradition and ecstatically termed it as revolutionary)

So, coming back to the point--

That superfluous wholeness
Has turned me into a wet hanky

The winter is over
A pussyface spring
And its green eye-shadow
arrives in bracketcity.



I feel all the shadows are
Addicted to a fall

From a four-storey window
a plunge is framed

A tiger roars in my eyes
A tiger roars in the gutter

Roars that are born in the mirrors
of our vertigo

A tiger roars
Framed on a fourth floor window
my contemplations


Tathagata said-- any matter is a condensed ore of a quality. Put this condesned quality in a gun’s breach and if the feeling that speeds from this gun has a minimum velocity of 344mts/sec—it can influence sound and meaning at ease.

This was the origin of materialism.

I couldn’t say—O Tathagata, I lack the inherent sound and meaning to get influenced and thus mold myself. I have lost it all in collective waters. The clocks that dissipated after they reached 3.00 a.m. were all my ancestors. They never had the velocity or the direction to influence, or the necessary sound or meaning to be influenced.

What I thought but couldn’t bring myself to say – was the origin of Idealism.

Water droplets lose their individual identity to unify and make a waterbody. The dragonfly that flickers playfully on a droplet turn engrossed contemplative on the waterbody for the purpose of laying eggs.

From the viewpoint of the waterbody – this is non-dualism

Dualism is prohibited in Bracketcity.


The rain thickens
The rain becomes a habit
The rain becomes a failure

These are the utterances of an unmade bed
that knows there is no one to make it
no hand will question the door
There is no handing over
a sleeve and an ace are the consolations of an escapist

Gloves are hanging from the door knocker
Fingers have escaped to the rain.


Mr. Bean said—can you really give shape to an idea unless it’s dead?

The light that passes you in an instant has
Never noticed you – don’t mind it
The slow and heavy light that
sticks with you is perilous
it turns into a sadist sculptor with
shadows in hand
intentionally forgets to build blood & sweat

These thoughts were against the land

In stoned waters prowls Picasso

Yesterday I had a talk with him
About conceptions
About a’priori knowledge
About post work rationalizations
About pre-intellectual feelings
About salivary glands
that spill over
in contact to both fragrance and stink

A long freight train is passing
Through my expressions
The freight train emanates an
Air of orange and tobacco
The abandoned encampments
Are getting drunk with the smell
They are transforming into gentle
& astonished expressions

This is the story of an interim balcony
that instigates the homely orchard to
become a cheer garden
peerless pompom

A pressure cooker’s whistle is drowning
The sounds of hatchets and prayers
Somewhere boiled pumpkin and bitter gourd
are turning violent

After the freight train and the kitchen
It’s time to come back to rain

It’s not raining now
There is no sun either
So there is no prospect of wetting
No prospect of drying up
Whatever is absent is the signifier
In the signified matters
Its cartoon essence is seen.


These are the woes of an incomplete window
That aspires to become an unmade bed
And unceasingly abrades itself towards opacity

The signs are slipping their necks into existence
Shards on their back weep

Fermented sounds make the truest wine
my inebriation sculpts a yoni
filled with meaning
and meaning is a snake that harbors
spent curiosity
curiosity lurks around a lyric-brothel
knocks on doors
and devoid of expression
enters into

nothing is left behind

Yet we require
validated paths
corsets smelling of hospital
a monsoon
suspended between
two poles


And then the inspiration of a second storey turns into just another structure and a belated fruit sheds in spring. My intuitions, methods, inorganic textures turn dissolute. Somewhere a drowning language violently strokes a swimming lingo.

An exhibitionist seed lies dormant inside the fruit
An engaged apron –tireless inside the seed
An alert dusk in the apron signals-- it’s time
For the routine 9.30 crossing of the bridge

So, this is my language that adorns paint and grease grows mineral fruits and their thorns and turns desolate--turns into a measured pause. Deep inside me plumb-lines and trowels become redundant. Bracketcity, where would I bury my loss, the glow of my uncertain aesthetics? Values of my abrupt cognizance, my style of losing the battle – will they become a slowly decaying necessity under concrete and marble?

A jestist tiger in bracketcity and its
Pedantic strolling

The stone that crushes beliefs
turns porous and yellow with beliefs
pedantic roar fills its minute pores up
and all astonished feelings turn yellow

The yellow tiger is sitting on a yellow chignon

My yellow eyes forgot to blink

Tools of sanctity in a broken mirror
And oxymoron of a kiss
A cul-de-sac is placed
Where fire-trucks do not enter
Vague smells of a flower market

a spring uncoils violently
in my sleep
a screwed-up spring bird
its shouts
wakes me up in a hurry
at 3.00 in the morning

love turns huge
in groaning glands

Oh, spend it down
Turn it mild
Make it a straight forward love

One love


I have never written a love poem nor I intend to write one all my life. I wrote the above portion on this assurance that it will transform itself into a love poem. Why write about it when you just could love.

I wrote the above lines
While thinking about a mouse-trap
that is separated from a mouse
its cheese and its reasons
distressed with the absence

An uninterpretation hides
Behind the intellect
Pokes its head in and out
Allures the trap

Just enough influence to
cover for the absence


And then I opened windows
Came out of conjectures

I saw nothing of import
I have made some dry acquaintances
No embrace to halt a track

“Going” itself has gone afar
Hand in hand with my heart
vision is not enough to build
enough salt for wounds


I come back to my salts
I see direction and chaos sitting together
A heavy night descends
The door-hinges fall asleep

I peel all the inertia from my fingers
Put it on white china
Make it valuable

Then sun rises
My reflection enters
Sounds of light splashing

Oh, his expressions
Where did he find them so easy?
All the elements return
So does Maya
Behind Maya you hide your watch
And exclaim--“no road can come out of this”
True, no road is a road if it doesn’t return

A caterpillar plays with caution
A bell chimes
And the nature is foiled inside a leaf

These all are self criticisms of a metaphor
Who knows-- no language is articulate enough
to mean.

In exchange of Artha
Will tolerate anything--
an enema, a prostate exam
affordable healthcare in a third world country
-- Then only it can be a language

When you shake the validated potholes
You find a path or two in them
The paths that descend inside relations
Inside agony
And no word remains left
to reach you to a definite subject

Such are tangible alternatives
of reality

A footbridge hibernating
among detonations
distorted spaces among continuum of confusion
scared shitless of their own images
portrayed in tireless museums
hugging themselves

And here you are
Worried about your forgotten medication


You will be unable to hold yourself
you will open your kernel, Smiling
run playfully towards denial

A pellucid sky hovers on the hospital
A transparence looms
Feelings have set their traps
They await you

No shape exists today
No shapeless

From neurons to glands
Only a movement back-n-forth

And floating over this movement
Expressions flutter

There is time
You may think about anticipation
There is no need to think about its limit
A limit is capable of taking care of itself

Inside the structure of a phallus
Mercury rises
and falls
learns all there is to love
and is there a limit to love ?

you may think about
how you may attack
thorny bushes with
your tongue
snatch away its language of silence

You may think about suspicions
And their renewal


You can witness from a distance
How a language loses its gait

Kneeling down

Bites a shudder

So healthy and coherent becomes expression
That exception seems like an erroneous window
Yesterday it flowered
Today the garden will walks towards rain
It is a perfectly foiled edge
A desirable monotony

Don’t you sit on the edge
A query may lengthen its reach
Explanations may want to get evaluated
A plunge is all it takes
It’s easy to be in center and watch
How a perfectly believable smile
Runs toward skeptic lips

A dawn emanates from the bed-room
Yellow and fragile become shadows
A rehearsal into fulfillment
Is turning transparent

A dawn is what it takes for questions to dissolve


Mr. Bean said—Ask questions if you may, but never seek an answer, every answer is a trap

And then there are illusions
every illusion needs a face
a decapitated body does not exude transparency

It's a slow winter
we talk more about
the nature of stories
appropriate for a winter like this
about coiled springs
a distant frozen harbor
dead images of dead ships
buoyed up to float
buoyed up to last

we wonder if transparency
is truly a reflection that beams with a certain sense of assurance
I don't have much problem with my transparency then

It’s one gorgeous winter
for a springloader
in search of strategic structures
immortal faces
that came out to bask in
paltry sun
O absolute Pomegranate, what is ignorance ?
--Ignorance is a fog
O absolute Pomegranate, what is knowledge ?
--Knowledge is a fog
O absolute Pomegranate, then what is the difference between ignorance and knowledge ?
--Ignorance has an inherent darkness. Knowledge has an inherent light that is incapable of penetrating the fog. Acquiring this light is the only purpose. This is the light that truly is unusable.
A dawn descends on bracketcity
Efforts and Karma move
In orchards or in stalls
no fruit remains left

Whatever is absent is the signifier; in a signified matter a desire for it is seen.

ভাপে ও তাপে গড়ানো আলোরা

শব্দ সেলিব্রেশান

নেশানো আলোস্রোত

গানের জন্য আলোর জন্য

এই যে জীবন্ত শহীদ্‌ হয়ে যাচ্ছে শব্দেরা

তাদের বুকের ভেতর জলের নামতা বুনে দিই

আমি তো কোনো ভাবনা রুইতে পারিনা

ওখানে তোমার নিজস্ব পাঠ্যতা

আমি তার নির্মাণের কে

এই যে জ্বরঘোর

তালকানা তাপ উঠছে


হুঁশের ভেতর দুএকটা পুরোনো ছেঁড়া খাতা

দিনপঞ্জি বা সুইসাইড নোট

সব একটাই সরলরেখা বরাবর হাঁটে

যদিও রেখাদের মাপজোকে রাখলে

সরলতা খুঁজে পাওয়া ভার

নিছক কৃত্রিমতা

যেটুকু জটিল তা ওই জীবননাট্য

মঞ্চাভিনয় থেকে নেওয়া মাত্রাগুলো যোগ করে দেখেছি

পাঁজরের খাঁজে তৈরি হওয়া সুড়ঙ্গ

সমুদ্র ডেকে আনছে রান্নাঘরের জানলায়

প্যারাসিটামলের ইচ্ছায় যেসব সেতুময় আত্মহত্যা নিটোল ছবিটিকে ভাঙছে তাদের গড়ানো তালিকাঃ

ক - না-খাওয়া ব্রেডের টুকরো আকাশ

খ - ডিমের হলুদ কুসুমে জেগে উঠছে ছোট্ট মুনিয়া

গ - আপেলের লালে ঠোকরানো ঠোঁট

এভাবেই বিকোসুলের পাতায় গজিয়ে উঠল

হলুদ ফুলের জলাশয়

ডুবুরির বুদবুদের ভেতর ভেসে উঠল

তোমার পুরোনো মুখ

নীলিমা ওই সম্ভাবনার নাম

আঃ! কেন ইশারাক্লান্ত করে তুলছো অডিও ভিসুয়াল

আমি তো ম্যাজিক জানিনা

তোমার মত গড়িয়ে পড়া চিত্রের আকারকে নিরাকারে নিয়ে যাবো

প্যাথোজেন কতটা গড়ালে তুমি এন্টিবডি ঝরাবে

কে তার হিসেব রাখে বলো

আমার হিসেবের মধ্যে কয়েকটা সাইট মাত্রঃ

১। লিম্ফোসাইটঃ ১৭৮৯ –ফরাসী বিপ্লবে তোমার বিদ্রোহী মুখ

২। মনোসাইটঃ ৫৬৮ – কেমন করে যে হারিয়ে গেল হোলি গ্রেইল

৩। লিউকোসাইটঃ ৬৬০০ – পৃথিবী ছেড়ে আমরা এক নতুন গ্রহের বাসিন্দা


আমি জানি

তোমার শব্দভাবনা আর প্রয়োগপদ্ধতি

তুমি ঠিক ধরে ফেলবে সঠিক আন্টিবায়োটিক

চিবুকে বসাবে সেরে ওঠার মজলিশ

কাঁচের গ্লাস আরো স্বচ্ছ হয়ে উঠবে

বাকি থাকা জলের গল্প শোনাতে

শব্দ আলিঙ্গন

মুখর নির্জনতা

আমি লিঙ্গবিচার করিনি কোনোদিন

তোমাদের গাঢ় সন্ধ্যার চাঁদে যেমন জোছনা খুঁজিনি

এই যে দৃশ্যের পর দৃশ্য



তোমার নির্মাণ প্রসেস

আমি তার খোসা ছাড়িয়ে

ছড়িয়ে দিই লেবু পাতায়

আঁজলা ভরে গন্ধ তুলে

মেখে নিই নিরাময় পালকে




লাল দাগে থেমে যায়

রূপ থেকে তুমি যে রূপকের আড়াল খুঁজছো

ক্লোজআপে দেখো

সংজ্ঞারা কেমন বেদম হয়ে পড়ছে

আসলে তোমাকে কোনো গন্ডীতেই বেঁধে রাখা গেল না

রৌশনচৌকি লাগিয়ে যতই হেঁকে হেঁকে বলি

তুমি এই

তুমি ওই

শ্রবণে আছড়ে পড়ে তোমার খলখল হাসি

হাসির সেন্টার অফ গ্র্যাভিটি খুঁজতে গেলেই

পাগলাগারদের দরজারা হাটখোলা হয়ে পড়ে




থার্মোমিটারে বেড়ে যায় পারদের পা

তোমার চিহ্নিতকরণে যে সব কাঠের ঘোড়া বসিয়ে দাও

তাদের দোলন মাত্রাগুলো কোনোদিন সরল হলো না

ফলতঃ আমার মাথা দুলতে থাকে বেহিসেবী




দুলতে দুলতে

হঠাৎ তারা খসে পড়ে

নিউরোন জালের ভেতর বিদ্যুৎরেখা

চকিত ও চমক দুটোকেই ব্যবহার্য করে তোলে

অবাক হয়ে হয়ে

গান হয়ে হয়ে

আকাশ ভরা শব্দ তারা

বিশ্ব ভরা প্রাণ...

প্রাণিতত্ত্বে রাখা এই সব মগ্নতা যখন

আনন্দ নিকেতনে দিগন্ত খুলে বসে

আমি সময়ের পকেট থেকে বের করে আনি


বাহারি গ্লাসে ভরে দিই নানা গতির তরল

গতিময়তা প্রাণেরই লক্ষণ

অথচ সর্বোচ্চ নয়

সঠিক মাপের গতিই নির্দ্ধারণ করে একটি ভ্রূণ

আলোর মধ্যে গড়ানো তার হলুদ কুসুম

গানের মধ্যে গড়ানো বিশ্বাসের নিরাময়

Monday, June 27, 2011

Interesting !

একাত্ম ! এই কথাই তো ভাবি ।

Jake Berry says--

By its very nature art is subjective -- that is what makes it work so well and gives it such long life. We can appreciate cave paintings from 30,000 years ago, each of us in our own way. How many theories have survived that long? […] Even in its ideal environment theory is just a collection of ideas that may or may not be validated. Art, at least for me, works the other way around. Though an artist might make preliminary sketches, and a poet might revise, without the inspiration -- the air one inhales -- that which comes from outside -- the artist is damned to repeat the past, to reproduce what is known. […] Whether the artist or poet accomplishes it or not, he or she should always try to discover something. Perhaps that discovery is old news to someone else, but that doesn't matter. At the very least the work will be charged with the enthusiasm of that moment of discovery.[6]

In Jeffrey Side's terms:

A satisfying poem is one that enters your mind and turns the key to your imagination. It enables you to find specific meanings and emotions that only you can recognize because they are filtered through your memory traces. A poem that fails to satisfy does the opposite: it tells you what it is about, the feelings you are to feel and the understanding you are to have. The words and images of a poem should be looked upon as devices that you can use to paraphrase every thought you have had, are having, and will have. The words should be twisted, stretched, moulded and freely associated to mean anything you want them to mean. In this way you become, in effect, a creative talent in your own right-you write the poem as you read it, so to speak.[7]

bracket part

Mr. Bean said – Don’t beat around the bush, It’s a long night already, come to the point.

Can one truly reach a point ?
I have looked at points closely and realized that
except the point itself everything else is beside the point.
So what’s the plan ?
Where do we go from here ?
Where do we find relevance ? be counted ?

such is the need for being relevant
even your inhibitions weep in allusions to loneliness
and to think these inchoate poems will
survive through their incoherence
i never cracked
is always on me

me is a toilet paper
good enough for
a he a she arse and a reference to
an unbiased form of entombed green memories

--do you remember
-- no I don’t
--it was there
--no it wasn’t

and paradigms of uncertain metaphors shift
to being local truths

sweet sweet truth
It’s one wonderful evening
wouldn’t you pick-up a date, drink martinis and listen to
older melodies—versatile enough to both sweep
and flood the relevance of being naked
in parts

Sunday, June 26, 2011

From Threshold Song, Peter Gizzi's forthcoming book

If all the world says something
we think then we know something
don’t we? And then the blank screen
or memory again. You crazy.
No, you crazy. It’s like this
but almost always
when time-lapsed words
and weather-swept flowering trees
move in empathetic wind.
I am rooted but alive.
I am flowering and dying.
I am you the wind says, the wind.

বই বেরনোর এক বছর আগে এই কবিতা সামনাসামনি বসে শুনছিলাম, শিকাগোর লেকশোর কাফেতে। সামনে লেক মিশিগান, বৃষ্টি....

Anguish (in part) by Arthur Rimbaud (Tr. John Ashbery)

The accidents of scientific magic and movements of social brotherhood are to be cherished as the progressive restitution of our first freedom ?....

But the Vampire who makes us behave ordains that we amuse ourselves with what she doles out to us, or that we be otherwise more entertaining.

To roll with ones wounds, through the wearying air and the sea; with physical torment, through the silence of murderous water and air; with tortures that laugh in their heinously stormy silence.

Saturday, June 25, 2011

স্মৃতিলেখা (অংশ)

ব্র্যাকেট, এক মধ্যবর্তী অংশ

উদ্যত উদার কুঠার
কব্জির গাঢ় সঞ্চালন
নিগূঢ় নিবিড় প্রিয় পাপ
কপালে ছোঁয়াই সযতন

(না-কী) সেও থাকে হোথা অকৃপণ
সেও ভাসে দ্বিধাহীন জলে
আমিও ভেসেছি অনিবার
আজীবন কুয়াশার ছলে

রজ্জুযোগে সর্প রাখি ঘরে
কান্ধে কেতু নয় রন্ধ্রে শনি
বিবেকের কক্ষে পুষি বিছা
হননের আমি কীইবা জানি

সুন্দরবন ও গুয়ের্নিকার মধ্যবর্তী রেলস্টেশানে নেমে পড়েন প্লেটো ও ট্রেনের জানলাসমূহ । অইখানে ভীতি – ভীতির অন্তরালে সপ্তদশ শতাব্দীর কালো টেলিফোন, গরম জলের ব্যাগ, টায়ারের চটি, কবি-তকমা ঝেড়ে ফেলা ইথিওপিয়ার বন্দুক ব্যবসায়ী এবং বহুপ্রচলিত অনুকম্পায়ী রাত্রি । এরপর ধাতুর ঝরনার সাথে ক্রমাগত শুভেচ্ছা বিনিময় করতে থাকে আমাদের অবদমন আর সেই কর্কশ ঝমঝমের ভেতর স্পষ্ট হয়ে ওঠে বন্দুক ব্যবসায়ীর উচ্চারণ – শিথিলতার অব্যবহিত আগে যে বিস্ময় – সে’ই হনন । বলাই বাহুল্য, সেই সময় রবি, আমাদের রবীন্দ্রনাথ, চতুর্দশবর্ষীয় এক বালক মাত্র । আর ব্যাখ্যা, ঘাতকের মানেবইগুলো নীলাভ এক দ্যুতির মধ্যে ঘোরাফেরা করে, নিজেই হারিয়ে যায়, ফিরে আসে – যন্ত্রণারহিত । এক স্বপ্নভঙ্গের নোটিশ আমাদেরও প্রাপ্য হয়ে ওঠে । এই সেই আলো যা ব্যবহার্য নয় । এই সেই প্ররোচনা যা বেঁচে থাকার জন্য অপরিহার্য্য নয় । এই সুস্থতা, এই হত্যা ।

ব্র্যাকেট-এর শেষ স্তবক

প্রভু নির্জ্ঞান কী ?
-- নির্জ্ঞান একটি কুয়াশা

প্রভু, প্রজ্ঞা কী ?
-- প্রজ্ঞা একটি কুয়াশা

প্রভু, তবে নির্জ্ঞান ও প্রজ্ঞার পার্থক্য কী ?
-- নির্জ্ঞানের নিজস্ব আছে এক অন্ধকার । প্রজ্ঞার অন্তর্বর্তী এক আলো – যা কুয়াশাভেদে অক্ষম ।
এই সেই আলো যার অর্জনই একমাত্র হেতু । এই সেই আলো যা ব্যবহার্য্য নয় ।

এর পর ভোর হয়
উদ্যোগ নড়ে চড়ে ব্র্যাকেটশহরে
ফল ব’লে আর কিছুই
বাগানে বাজারে পড়ে থাকে না ।

যা নেই তা’ই চিহ্নক – চিহ্নিত বস্তুসমূহে যার আকাঙ্খাটুকু দেখা যায় ।

Sunday, June 19, 2011

bracket aabaar cholchhe aar ki...

শব্দ স্পর্শ করে লেখা ভরা যোনী
স্পর্শের ঘরে ঢোকে সাপ
সাপের মর্মে থাকে “অতঃপর” ধ্বনি
ধবনির অন্তরালে ......

ব্র্যাকেটশহর – এই এক ভাস্বর মদ
যার নেশা পাথর-কুঁদিয়ে হয়ে ওঠে
আগলায়, ঠোকরায়
লিরিকের গলিতে বিশ্বাস বর্জন করে
সর্বাঙ্গ কড়া নাড়ে
অভিব্যাক্তি ছাড়াই
ঢুকে যায়

কোন কিছুই আর পড়ে থাকে না
তবু “অতঃপর” উপচিয়ে ওঠে

এরপরও প্রয়োজন হয়
প্রামান্য পথ,
কুয়াশা ও
সেবাসদনের মত সায়া
দু’খুঁটির মাঝে ঝুল খাওয়া
মৌসুমির হেতু

Friday, June 10, 2011

এমন আঙুলে কি আগুন সম্ভব ?


তুমুল বৃষ্টির নৈঃশব্দ্য গুটি বাঁধছে আঙুলে। বাধ্যতামূলক দিনযাপন


অ - অনস্তিত্বের নৈরাশ্যরঙ ক্যানভাসে

আ – আলোর ফলকনামা ছেঁড়া কথকতা

ই – ইনসেপসানে গোটানো অন্ধকার

ঈ – ঈশিতার মহিমায় সোর্সকোডও বানচাল

আমি লাটিম থেকে বাক্যবিনিময়ের সুতো খুলে খুলে ঘুরে যাই অনির্দিষ্ট বিষয়ের বৃত্তে

কেন্দ্রযাত্রায় নাস্তি করেছো বহুদিন

তন্ময় ব্যাসার্ধ হেঁটে হেঁটে আলোকবর্ষ তক

তা-না-দেওয়া ডিম ফেটে সম্ভাব্য হলুদ কুসুম

সমে ফেরার ঝোঁকে তর্জনীও অসম

এমন আঙুলে কি আগুন সম্ভব

বিধাতার আঙুল ধরে ধরে যেকটা মোক্তারনামা লেখা হয়েছিল তাদেরই দলিলে দেখো লিখিত নিয়মের পাঁচালিলাল পিঁপড়ের ঘরে ফেরার ধ্বনিতে আমি গৃহত্যাগের শব্দ শুনি

গৃহ মানে গণ্ডী নয়

গৃহ মানে স্মৃতি

যার নেই তার সিঁড়ি আছে

আরোহণের গল্প আছে

দোহাই তোমার

গল্পে কোনো দরজা রেখো না

দরজা তো সকলের থাকে না

অপেক্ষা থাকে

থাকে দেয়ালঘড়ির কলকাঠি

কেন্দ্রাতিগ ভ্রমণে যেকটা সূত্র

পেরিয়েছিল হাসপাতালের গরাদ

তাদের গায়ে এখনও লেগে আছে

সাদা পোশাকের নার্সীয় ঘ্রাণ

মাথা সংক্রান্ত জ্যামিতিতে যেকটা সূত্র ঈষৎ চুম্বনের রেখা টেনেছিল তাদের নিঃসঙ্গ কারুকাজে

ভ্রমরের গুনগুন

নান্দীমুখে করণীয় শ্রাদ্ধসমূহঃ-

ক - কার্যকারণ কিংবা সমাধান খুঁজো না প্লিজ

খ – খননে না জননে কৈফিয়তটা মুলতুবি থাক

গ – গণ কিংবা জন আগে পরে বেছে নিও

আমি তো কাঁটাতাড়ের বেড়া দিইনি কোথাও

তবু কেন সীমানার রদবদল

ক্ষুৎকাতর আঙুলে এখনো রক্তপাত

সুস্থির বিছানায় এখনো জড়িয়ে আছে তৃষ্ণার ধ্বনি

শীৎকারে মাপতে গেলে আলাদিনও

সলতে খোঁজে প্রদীপ জ্বালাতে

আপেক্ষিকতার গল্প তুমি বলতেই পারোআমি তো নিশ্চি নই, কতটা প্রত্যয় অসমান হলে

এমন আঙুলেও আগুন সম্ভব

দরজার ওপাশে প্রতিবন্ধী অন্ধকার

অপেক্ষার অভ্যাসে সাঁকো খোঁজে

গরাদেরা স্পষ্ট হলে জেনো

নদীও একা হতে জানে

নদীর গায়ে ঝুলে থাকা প্রাচীন বদ্বীপেরা

নাতিদীর্ঘ সন্ধ্যার কাহিনী লিখে গেলে

আমি একটা সমাপ্তিরেখা টানি


এই যে সঙ্গমীত শরীর আর তার অন্তর্গত আনন্দভবন, পাশাপাশি অবস্থানের অনিশ্চয়তা আজও দখল করে আছে আমি আর আমার ভেতর আলোখোঁজা দরজা

দরজারা নিহত হলে যাওয়ারা স্বপ্ন দেখে

স্মৃতিজটে ঝুলে থাকে

ফেরার নির্দেশ

অবস্থানের সঙ্গে চলনবেগও মেপে ফেলার স্পর্ধা করলে অনিশ্চিতের সবকটা সুতো ফাঁস খুলে খুলে আবার গাঁথতে বসেকারণ সেখানে তো শুধু যাওয়া নেইসেখানে যাতায়াত

এই যে আঙুলবেলার বৃত্তান্ত ফেঁদেছি

তুমি বৃত্ত খুঁজলে

কেন্দ্র থেকে




উৎখাতে নেমে যাবে জীবনমুখী উৎসগুলো

অন্ত ধরে এ... ... টা... না...

হেঁটে গেলেও পারো


সেখানে মৃত্যুমুখী বৈভবগুলো

অন্তহীনের অপেক্ষায়

এই যে অসময়ে অন্ধকারের প্রমাদ, তারও কিছু অরণ্যকথা থাকেদৃশ্য থেকে পাখিনাশক সমস্ত দৃশ্য অ-দৃশ্য করে দেখো বনপথে পড়ে আছে মুমূর্ষু আলো

বরাবর দেখেছি আলোরা শুরুর কথা বলে







ইদানীং প্রতীকরোগে কখনো নৃ কখনো হরিণ

নৃ থেকে নৃতত্ত্বে যেও না প্লিজ

প্রাচীন নাচঘর কিংবা

নৃত্যপটীয়সীর ঈপ্সিত আঙুলের বরাভয়

আসলে মরফিমে কয়েক রতি আফিম মিশে গেলে

প্রতিষ্ঠানে বেজে ওঠে

তুমুল দুন্দুভি






যবনিকাপাতের আগে দুএকটা দৃশ্যান্তরঃ-

১। যেসব প্রেক্ষাপটে প্রত্যয় উচ্চারিত হয়েছিল তাদের পাদদেশ এখন বিষণ্ণ

২। নিমগ্ন উড়ালপুলের সময় সংক্ষেপ নিয়ে সঠিক মাপের বাক্যবিনিময়

৩। যোগাসনের যোগবিয়োগ

৪। তুঁহু ও দুঁহু মিলে ভজনান্তর

দীয়তাং ভুজ্যতাং এখনি খারিজ করতে পারে সমস্ত উপপাদ্য

প্রমাণ মাপের দেখনহাসি হেরফের হলেই

টলমল করে ওঠে মাথা মস্তিষ্ক

এবংবিধ সময়েরা যখন অসময়ের বেড়া দিচ্ছে

তুমি বোনভোজনের প্রতীতি নিয়ে

আমি প্রসবকালীন তীব্রতায় প্রাণায়ামে নামছি

জারজ পঙ্‌ক্তিসকল জড়িয়ে যাচ্ছে আঙুলে

যে স পেন্ডুলাম সম্ভাব্য তরঙ্গদৈর্ঘ্য দাখিল করেছিল

সেখানে দাতব্য খুলে দিলে

দাফন যোগ্যতায় নেচে ওঠে প্রাণীসকল

যোনিমুখ চুঁইয়ে নেমে আসে রজোগুণ

তমোগুণে যতটা সাজ বা সজ্জা দেখো

তামসেও ততটাই আঙুললেখা


এমন আঙুলে কি আগুন সম্ভব