Here I Am…

How long I have not been here….you all have forgotten me…or has given up on me…this post is a bit of what I am up to…

On the other side of the road the organizer is playing “তখন তোমার একুশ বছর…” (You might be twenty-one that time…) The song was composed by Bappi Lahiri and sung by Arati Mukherjee. Today is Janmasthami, birth occasion of Gopal or Krishna.

Four years has passed away as if in a snap. This was the day I learned of her marriage. But, wait. I’m not going to rant about it. But, am here to talk on a small achievement I have achieve.

Last month I had sent this story to a competition of short story. An anthology of stories which will hit fast and strike hard as the organizer asked for. I wrote a story of love. A very much different type of one I ever thought of. So, the result was out few days back. And surprisingly I am one of the twenty-five selected from over eight-hundred entries.

The book will be out next month, September. Now, so, I am really a published author. Couldn’t speak of it much now at this point of time. But, will speak of it. After the book got published, and I see myself there in the pages, on the pages.

P.S. From now on will try to be at Thoughts on weekend and holidays.


Just a “Hello”

Yeah, yeah. I know I have not been here after the April National Poem Writing Month.

Many of you have already forgotten me or have stopped to follow this blog. Few days back though during an update few of my untitled incomplete Bengali poems had got posted making me realized sometimes incomplete is the complete.

I have many times tried to write something and post them. But, at one hand I have to take care of my new life as I accepted to get married; on the other hand the life is sort of Cape of Good Hope when it comes to my professional life. The turmoil was such that I couldn’t sit down and thought out something to write or to ponder on. I’ve now can tackle that but I still need time to get back here.

Those of you who are reading this thanks. And those who are just hitting the Like button in sake of pressing nothing to say because you’re not reading it as I don’t read yours–yeah return gift of my absence.




widow’s dreams

on sale

hunters awake


[Take the Bold words and joined it with title, in the beginning or in the end–your choice, to get another line, and place it as per your choice in this poem.]




[Put the ON as per your choice]

Note: Title itself also a poem. Your choice the way you want to perceive it.

The arts are done by the poet.

Written for National/Global Poem Writing Month Day 30


And last but not least, now for our final (but still optional) prompt for this year! I’d like you to try your hand at a minimalist poem.



Deep in the north she stand tall, with a smirk on her lips.

Short her stature but still she stand tall and smiling amongst the ashes.

Standing short is easy, not the tall that too with courage.

In the halls, she had danced with needle as her father watched.

She had seen the pigeons fly as the executioner’s sword pinked

With the blood of their father, and heard her sister screaming.

She was naive; lost kid in the wood not knowing where to go.

She was a boy; list of names in her mind, in her dreams

Dreaming to put the Needle into the hearts who hurt her house.

She had came close to deaths more than once; more than anyone else.

She had seen the Young Wolf riding dead on the horse.

Leaving her protector to die, she had been dead for a long time.

Serving the god of the death, serving the man without a face;

Roaming the city of free men as hawker selling oysters;

Surviving the city as the beggar, blind and aimless, asking for alms.

She had smiled at the play, and she cried at the play saving her target.

Without face the travel she had taken long ago, with face she’s at home.

He had gifted him the dagger that he had hold on his father throat;

He passed it onto her just casually as the reunion gift

But, purpose deep buried in; a wry and dry smile he had.

She is the protector; as she slit the throat of the little finger.

Standing beside her sister she stands tall as the blood spilled out

On the floor of the hall-court;

She became the elder not her Lady sister that moment.

She was a kid; runnin’ and sneakin’ to catch on the march

Of the King of the seven realms with his legitimate family.

She is a lady; as the dragons flew over her home

And their Mother and their Brother marched in.

She is a lover; the night was long; all the warriors and knights sitting

Around the fire in the hall, and meditating in the squire’s song,

She need to be loved, and was loved by the Bull, son of King

Echoing his father’s wish to her father on his last visit to her home.

The army marched into her home; she faced the death again.

She fought; she bleed; she fight in with the warriors

Killing more than a few.

Red Priestess’ prophecy comes to be true before the long night conclude.

She was a wind; as she passed on the guards to reach the King.

She is a tall woman; dipping the dagger as the King hold her to kill.

Deep in the North, Arya Stark stand tall,

Though she’s still small Lady Stark;

Smiling at her brother who seems to knew of this conclusion b’fore.

The army shattered and turned to ashes; leaving the death to be death.

The warriors and knights relieved; sun rises at the horizon of Winterfell.

Arya Stark stand tall deep in the North under the weirwood tree.

Written for National/Global Poem Writing Month Day 29


And now for our penultimate (optional) prompt! The poet William Wordsworth once said that “Poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings: it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquility.” For Wordsworth, a poem was the calm after the storm – an opportunity to remember and summon up emotion, but at a time and place that allowed the poet to calmly review, direct and control those feelings. A somewhat similar concept is expressed through the tradition of philosophically-inclined poems explicitly labeled as “meditations,” – like Robert Hass’s “Meditation at Lagunitas,” the charming Frank O’Hara prose poem, “Meditations in an Emergency,” or Charles Baudelaire’s “Meditation.”

Today, I’d like to challenge you to blend these concepts into your own work, by producing a poem that meditates, from a position of tranquility, on an emotion you have felt powerfully. You might try including a dramatic, declarative statement, like Hass’s “All the new thinking is about loss,” or O’Hara’s “It is easy to be beautiful; it is difficult to appear so.” Or, like, Baudelaire, you might try addressing your feeling directly, as if it were a person you could talk to. 


Thoughts Need to be Microwaved

Somewhere the atom has been split opened.

Somewhere the police chasing the thieve on foot.

Somewhere the leaves are falling.

What’re are you looking at?

These are the thoughts one of which is needed to pick to start.

Like the leftovers from the noon and from the day before

Need to be microwaved

In other words, the sentences and its thoughts need to be get warmed.

Maybe I should look on something else not these sentenced thoughts.



Summer chiaroscuro divorce lust win poem muse war global warming–

These are words, mere words; meanings and their usage depends on me.

What’re you looking from me?

Are you imaging a slump me, giving you words and thoughts

to present your audience.

Then wait for a few minutes,

I need a cup of coffee b’fore I dress you up for your next show.

Epic sonnet villanelle prose-poem confessional (caesura)

cup of coffee

Written for Day 28 of National/Global Poem Writing Month 2019.


And now for our daily (optional) prompt. As you may have guessed, today I’d like to challenge you to try your hand at a meta-poem of your own.


Witch and Memories

Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel, Juliet says.

She smiled to put off the mascara; eyes needs to be wrinkled.

She let her hair rolled down; touching her hips; grey they are.

Audry whispers now is the time that face should form another.

She looked at the mirror; she smiled, softly at first then wryly.

She looked into her eyes in the high-powered bulb at the head.

Blue they are; the lips which are fantasy to many, men and women,

Dark red, Portia comment though coral is far more red than her lips’ red.

The time was long ago when she was the face of the plays;

She was Ophelia, she was Lady Macbeth, she was the Lady Shakespeare

As they used to call her. So should the lines of life that life repair,

Desdemona asks from the mirror; it was she at twenty, two score years ago.

The bell rang; she put out her teeth into the glass and mumbled,

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day, the eldest witch smiled back at her.

Written for

Written for Day 27 of National/Global Poem Writing Month 2019.


I’d like to challenge you to “remix” a Shakespearean sonnet. You can pick a line you like and use it as the genesis for a new poem. Or make a “word bank” out of a sonnet, and try to build a new poem using the same words (or mostly the same words) as are in the poem. Or you could try to write a new poem that expresses the same idea as one of Shakespeare’s sonnets.


Shallow (A Journey to Affection)

Beginning with love, we journey to affection.

The dreams we hold are scattered in the breeze.

The dreams we hold are scattered in the breeze

That brushes our naked body entwined in each other.

Entwined in each other’s arm we lie there in the pale darkness,

The street-light yellow painting the wall golden.

The street-light yellow painting the wall golden,

When I delved inside you and you hold me tight.

The dreams that we treasured gets scattered in the breeze.

Beginning with love, we travel to affection.

Your body is a wonderland that I want to hold on,

I want to hold back the lips which I know not possible.

I thus go back to love returning from affection,

Few months remain there when I can hold onto you

When I want to.

Beginning with love, we journey to affection

And every night I goes back to the wonderland,

When the street-light yellow paint the wall golden

And the wind breezes into darkness.

Returning to the wonderland, I hold onto you

And you hold onto me as my chin rest on your forehead.

Beginning with love, we journey to the affection

Scattering our longs and dreams into each other bodies, naked.

Written for Day 26 of National/Global Poem Writing Month 2019.


Today’s (optional) prompt is centered around repetition. Today, I’d like to challenge you to write a poem that uses repetition. You can repeat a word, or phrase. You can even repeat an image, perhaps slightly changing or enlarging it from stanza to stanza, to alter its meaning. There are (perhaps paradoxically) infinite possibilities in repetition.



Breathing together are the wind with the length of the day;

The warmth of the past season is transpiring as the warm

Of the evening, becoming lengthy by each passing eve.

The skin fair has started to be tanned where the mid-day sun

Touches; the naked unguarded portion of the body.

Who is there to deny this ascending? No one.

The trees are glowing with the green leaves, new and young,

Gift of the spring to the nature and to those looking at them.

The mangoes and jack fruits are waiting to be there on the branches;

To be get plucked, and to get tasted. Sweet and sour; a potpourri

Of taste they serve to the tongue that has grown pale and tasteless.

The noon will start romancing the silence of the city; and the morning

And the evening will smell calm and sweet; as soap will be rubbed

During the bath–the aspect that was a matter of chaos in few last months.

Who can deny this, the matter of chaos and the disturbance? No one.

The morning will be clear and warm as the sun will rise

Beyond the tall glass trees; and the breeze will be calm, before

The bits of the beats of the day progress welcoming the blistering warmth.

The evening will be same; warm and breathless, waiting for the monsoon.

The moon in the late evening can only make it calm and composed.

Sometimes the young evening will guise itself into the night.

The storm will brew and brontide will be composed at the horizon of city;

The spells are of varied types ranging from torrential to mild to drizzling

Sending life in a mess, the mess that is chaotically beautiful

And perfumed, amalgamation of petrichor and wet hot asphalt streets.

Where is the one who can reject the call of the long that followed?

Written for Day 25 of National/Global Poem Writing Month 2019.


And now for today’s prompt (optional, as always). Taking a cue from our video resource for the day, and from Keat’s poem, To Autumn, I’d like to challenge you to write a poem that:

  • Is specific to a season
  • Uses imagery that relates to all five senses (sight, sound, taste, touch, and smell)
  • Includes a rhetorical question, (like Keats’ “where are the songs of spring?”)

Stopping by the Words in the Odd Page

Searching for the proper verb I was out there amongst the words in the

thesaurus, Bengali to English it was.

Randomly I opened a page near to the intended Bengali alphabet,

and got struck at another Bengali word, not a verb it is; a homographs;

it was both a noun and an adverb–

depends on how you use it or want to use.

As a noun, it means relationship; grand in nature–

Grand-son, husband of grand-daughter, wife of grand-son.

As an adverb, it is prefixed to say not much, moderately–

not much short, not much long, mild temperate zone, mildly cold.

The verb I was looking for might be there in one of those two pages–

or not, I didn’t look for it anymore;

(’cause) these Bengali homograph words made me stop at the odd page

it was printed in.

Written for Day 24 of National/Global Poem Writing Month 2019.


Today’s (optional) prompt is to write a poem that, like “Dictionary Illustrations,” is inspired by a reference book. Locate a dictionary, thesaurus, or encyclopedia, open it at random, and consider the two pages in front of you to be your inspirational playground for the day. Maybe a strange word will catch your eye, or perhaps the mishmash of information will provide you with the germ of a poem.



On the slab of my southern windows they sat and chirped

Telling it’s time, and we are here.

They dance, they prance on the patterned grills–

grabbing the attention, you can say.

They chirp, they dance letting the world know–

we are still here.

Once, not long ago, they have disappeared just to return.

They chirp, they flapped their majestic little wings

As I offer them, spreading, some puff rices, on the slab;

They have them silently; sometimes and often flapping their wings.

They dance, they chirped, they pranced before flying away.

Written for Day 23 of National/Global Poem Writing Month 2019.


And now for our daily prompt (optional, as always)! Taking a cue from Elizabeth Bishop’s “The Sandpiper”, I’d like to challenge you today to write a poem about an animal. If you’d like to take a look at some other poems for inspiration, you might like James Dickey’s “The Dusk of Horses,” or Tennyson’s “The Eagle.”



Have you seen that. The painting with two women and a man.

Yes. It’s like a concert, that had been conducted once in a wealthy man chamber.

Yes, it is call The Concert, some arts by a penniless painter named Vermeer.

What are you doing? Taking a closer look? What do you see?

That painting; the one beyond the standing lady head looks familiar.

Oh, that was, that day an art frenzy girlfriend showed me that. It is something

of the name The Procuress by some Baburen. This painting also seems such

one. How can you say that? Pass me the joint.

The one standing, and, reading a note supposed to be singing; she might be clad

in the shades but actually she was singing to entertain the client–the man showing

us the back. The young maiden, the one young harpsichord player is the bait.

No, it can’t be. See, they are engrossed in some music composition.

Ta rum ta ra tum rum rum pum pum. Pass me the bottle, and there’s nothing

in the painting; not a procuress, not a pimp, not a young whore.

How can you be sure? Cannot be the man showing us the back a known prolific

figure–of that time or he might be some one of historical importance of the country?

You all three ruining the St. Patrick’s celebration talking gibberish on that picture.

Whatever that is, whoever they were not a matter of talk to us; it is of those

long-faced serious with elongated nose art connoisseur; they will talk on this

with glasses dangling on their nose, cigarette or cigar or pipe lingering on their–

mouth, and a notebook in the lap which will be formed by their crossed legs sitting.

Yeah, man. I am also filling like an intruder in that concert. The patterned marble

floor, the viola da gamba; they are saying do not disturb. Even the lute in the man’s

hands seems to joined in into voice the protest. Leave it, and let celebrate.

Who’s there? Police? At this time? Coming in a moment.

The sites that helped in composing this poem, written for Day 21 of National/Global Poem Writing Month 2019, are:

  1. The Concert
  2. Vermeer Thefts: 1990 — The Concert
  3. Most Wanted: Vermeer’s “The Concert”, The World’s Most Expensive Missing Work of Art

And also the Blog Post titled “14 Ways to Write an Ekphrastic Poem” by Martyn Crucefix.


Today, I’d like to challenge you to write a poem that engages with another art form – it might be about a friend of yours who paints or sculpts, your high school struggles with learning to play the French horn, or a wonderful painting, film, or piece of music you’ve experienced – anything is in bounds here, so long as it uses the poem to express something about another form of art.


A Walk Over the Living

Asleep few are hiding in the shades of the bridge that had ruin their homes.

The awakening ones there roaming like a lion looking not for the hunt,

but to mate.

The man you see is not the man you’re seeing; it’s actually a reflection that you

wished to see; the peeling of the mask happen when you take him to your bosom

and surrender in his arms.

The woman you see is not the lady you wanted; it’s actually what you lusted for

when the night and its silence walked to welcome twilight of the dawn; she’s

actually what you wanted to possessed not to love.

When I looked in into your heart, I found the darkness there in its bluest form,

and the breath of the heart sing the song of the saints who were killed over the

centuries for being an individual.

At one corner of the city she can be found for whom you’ve been lurking for over

bodies of the dead; some rotten, some skeletal, some still holdin’ life in them.

She will invites you to her bed but for that you’ve to be need to die. She loves the

scream not the moan–a lover of death-scream she’s.

As you move being vagabond whom to choose over the graveyard of the city,

the poet moved a little in his grave; no one knows he’s there; only the dog know

who chew on his age-old bone enlarging the bullet hole in his once-thigh bone.

He screamed mimicking the screech of the tires in the mid of night.

As you moved to the dreams of the dream of the night, screeching of tires is your

call to wake up, and walked inside the darkness of who’s lying besides you.

Written for Day 21 of National/Global Poem Writing Month 2019.


Today, I’d like to challenge you to write a poem that, like The Color of Pomegranates and “City That Does Not Sleep,” incorporates wild, surreal images. Try to play around with writing that doesn’t make formal sense, but which engages all the senses and involves dream-logic.


At Thirty-One…

With a cigarette on the mouth, you dreamed of the world to be under

your feet. Hsuan-tsang, Magellan, Livingstone, Colonel Suresh Biswas

used to be there in your mind. The world, the journey, the unknowns

used to attract you more than the tender loves and the addictions

that your friends used to be submerged in. By twenty-eight I would

pay of the loan, and will deposit much money to roam, to trot around the world,

you had planned and had lived by it. But, life is what unplanned meetings are like.

Never knowing the happenings. Now, at thirty one you are fat, and working to be

afloat in the world. The urge to respond to the call world gives had been categorized

as wild fantasy, as some teen age bull shit; the truth is to remain afloat amidst all the

things. The poem thus remain, the stories thus remain. The cigarette at the mouth

now is little lengthy and costly; the dreams, of the growing up years, are only there

buried deep inside the grown consciousness of the man, of you, of me.

Today’s the poet 31st Birthday.

Written for Day 20 of National/Global Poem Writing Month 2019.


Today, I’d like to challenge you to write a poem that “talks.” What does that mean? Well, take a look at this poem by Diane Seuss. While it isn’t a monologue, it’s largely based in spoken language, interspersed with the speaker/narrator’s own responses and thoughts. Try to write a poem grounded in language as it is spoken – not necessarily the grand, dramatic speech of a monologue or play, but the messy, fractured, slangy way people speak in real life. You might incorporate overheard speech or a turn of phrase you heard once that stood out to you – the idea here is to get away from formally “poetic” speech and into the way language tends to work out loud.



A can be one; it can be a lot; it can be again used to denote the singular.

Like he; no one remembered his birth name; everyone of the few who knows him

came up with some good ol’names. Good man he was, they’ll say. Fact is though

Jack of all trade he was, they would say as if they had knew a lot of him. Matter of

fact no one knows him; oh, yes he was a popular guy in that time. Queer was his

habits of drinking, rampaging with some of his few drunkard friends, through the

pubs and bars; Ubermensch, this very name, was the name we used to called

ourselves; he, let him be X, once said yawning these pubs and bars were zeitgeist,

they need to be demolished and instead book stores and libraries should be set

for dawn of a new era, new time; for the future. What’re we would be giving to

future–he had said might be another day, we were just some young fool drunkards.

A B C does everything for gunning him in July–kicking life into middle of the

night on the pacified quiet road–still to undertaking his venture with X Y Z.

No one remember him. No one remember us. We were young, we were drunkard.

God and His Messengers, we were called mocking the name of our group, vanished

in the flame of his pyre. Drunk and addicted, we thought he would rise as phoenix.

The alphabets that are italic are in series.

Inspired by a poem of Tom Disch (1940-2008) named Abecedary, and written for Day 19 of National/Global Poem Writing Month 2019.


Today, I’d like to challenge you to write an abecedarian poem – a poem in which the word choice follows the words/order of the alphabet. You could write a very strict abecedarian poem, in which there are twenty-six words in alphabetical order, or you could write one in which each line begins with a word that follows the order of the alphabet.


Lost Hymn and Hibiscus

To My Dida (Gran’ma)…

The plot is there but the house had been rebuilt. No one chant hundred

and eight names of Krishna rounding the house anymore in the morning;

and collect flowers for the morning puja. The plants are there maybe; last

time I saw them, I touched them was two years ago. They were weak that

time; they were growing old in rapid pace. No one now sing the Sanskrit

devotional songs in the evening. The incense sticks though get lightened;

the Gods are still get served by aunt. She never got a chance to be with you

and she didn’t know what she had not earned–your wisdom, your knowledge.

The house in the old form with tiled roof, blackened and sooted clay oven kitchen,

and the hibiscus trees and the trees of small flowers sometimes visit me in dream.

Sometimes your voice I could hear rounding me like it used to in the summers of my

childhood; the song used to get me disturbed for waking up but these days when

mechanical cock call or some soothing tune woke me up I feel that humming was the

best alarm to wake up to; while the smell of the flower trees and the mangoes is

I looked for to smelled when odor of nicotine or petroleum suffocate me.

For Day 18 of National/Global Poem Writing Month 2019.


Our optional prompt for the day takes its cue from how poetry can help us to make concrete the wild abstraction of a feeling like grief. “The Lost Pilot” does this, as does this poem by Victoria Chang, called “Obit.” In both poems, loss is made tangible. They take elusive, overwhelming feelings, and place them into the physical world, in part through their focus on things we can see and hear and touch. Today, I’d like to challenge you to write an elegy of your own, one in which the abstraction of sadness is communicated not through abstract words, but physical detail. This may not be a “fun” prompt, but loss is one of the most universal and human experiences, and some of the world’s most moving art is an effort to understand and deal with it.


The Crow on the Railing

When I was kid at the school I saw, one day, a body wrapped in woolen rug

Lying by the side of the road just down the bridge where I used to take turn

to my home. There was a body we, me and my friends, know very well. But,

we don’t know what would be our responsibility. We passed it, and on my

insistent we stopped at a distance. Few flies were buzzing over the face of

covered body while a type of bug mixed with them on the other parts. I can

recollect there was a crow also sitting on the railing that was there, new then

now worn off and broken. It was there looking at the wrapped body, silently.

No more crows were there, nor was a sparrow or any other bird was there.

The crowd was mostly of returning from school students and their mothers.

Few of them had looked at them. Some spat on the body. Some covered their

noses with the end of their sharees. I was thinking whose body it can be. I had

looked at the crow. I can recollect it looked at me and I at it. It might have been

thinking I’m going to snatch its hunt. To it it was just a dead rodent or rat. It cawed

at me. Saying to go away, the hunt belongs to it. My friends tried to pull me away.

Suddenly, the rug quake, and the body sat up with the rug on it. A bearded

obnoxious face of a man emerged. Ma used to scare me saying he was the ungrateful

giant from the garden. The crow flew away. The passing flowing crowd was startled

and had halted for a few beats ‘fore gathering up the momentum again. The giant

yawned and looked around. We ran away as he looked at us in the way.

Many years later when gran’ma was lying dead with body wrapped under her

favorite designed blanket, I recollect the crow on the railing. I feel I had became it as I

wait to see gran’ma wake up, and talk with me on how was my day or am I hungry or

not. The threshold of the room was my railing.

Originally written in Bengali in 2011-2012. Rewritten for Day 17 of National/Global Poem Writing Month 2019.


Today, I’d like you to challenge you to write a poem that similarly presents a scene from an unusual point of view. Perhaps you could write a poem that presents Sir Isaac Newton’s discovery from the perspective of the apple. Or the shootout at the OK Corral from the viewpoint of a passing vulture. Or maybe it could be something as everyday as a rainstorm, as experienced by a raindrop.

Featured image procured from Google Search Engine.


I Found in the Narrow Wooden Chest (‘fore Carpenter Taken It Away)

(In the bottom drawer,)

The saucepan, burnt and without a handle, medium in size.

The age old muffler, brown, belonging to my father,

I never came to know.

The winter clothes, sweaters and woolen shirts and t-shirts,

those I’ll never wear again.

The kantha or baby-wrapping clothes made from an old sharee of Ma;

belonging to me.

(In the middle drawer,)

A stack of CDs with songs and movies name written on them; some by my sister,

most by me.

An old X-Ray photograph of my sister’s broken leg–I couldn’t recollect when had

that happened.

Results from my childhood; not all were there; few were eaten by termites

of the house we had lived last.

A yellow newspaper dated 6th December, 1992 with underlined with blue and red

pencil marks;

my grandfather used to do that in the evening everyday,

Another paper, not so yellow, dated 24th February, 2010, with Sachin Tendulkar

basking in glory; he was the first man to score a double ton in world cricket history

that day.

An old worn out Bengali Atlas; pages some missing, some torn, some have been–

fodder to the rats from the last house we had lived in.

One more old newspaper with underlined sentences and advertisements that

today’s one could find; for example a clinic for abortion or an adult Hindi film.

A pack of tobacco gums in cardamon flavor; planned to quit smoking few years back.

(In the top drawer,)

Bills and receipts, three to six months old, for the medicines and groceries.

The receipts book for the cable guy.

Couple of small packets full of broken and disused pieces of toys

from my nephew’s childhood days, and the splinters of pastel and pencil

of varied colors.

Batteries, new and unpacked and unused–at times of need one can’t find them.

Three cell phones; one from pre-smartphone-era while others are from


Their chargers and few more cheap chargers entangled together in a packet.

The brochure of the hotels that Ma had toured for last three years;

Kashmir, Kulu-Manali, and Andaman Islands.

A bunch of ear buds; a bunch of birthday candles.

A receipt of a tailor’s store

(at last it was found; Ma had upturned every possible places in search of it).

Few scratch and win cards from detergent and biscuits.

Five disused pens–some missin’ caps, some missin’ refills,

some are jammed at the knock.

Boxes of cell phones of Ma and me bought in last two years.

Payslips from my last company, bank receipts of paying interest on EMI, and

hazed and vanished-letters ATM slips.

Inspired by Lucy English’s “Things I Found in the Hedge” and Christopher Smart’s “Jubilate Agno”

Written for Day 16 of National/Global Poem Writing Month 2019.


And now for our daily prompt (optional, as always). Today’s prompt takes its inspirations from Christopher Smart’s “Jubilate Agno.” Fundamentally, this is a poem about a cat. It’s also a structurally very straightforward poem – every line begins the same way, and is about some aspect of the cat at issue. But from these seemingly simple ingredients, Smart constructs a poem that is luminously, joyously weird. Just as English’s poem listing things found in a hedge renders the familiar strange by making us focus on each, individual item in the hedge, Smart makes a humble housecat seem like the most wondrous thing in the world. Today, I challenge you to write a poem that uses the form of a list to defamiliarize the mundane. 


Eighteenth Evening


The chamber of King Dhritarashtra is dimly lightened as he sat on his throne (asanas) in silent. He was silent and lost. Sanjay his charioteer and adviser is only with him. He is standing at the windows of the chamber and looking over the vast expanse of exterior of Hastinapur. The Battle of Kurukshetra has ended last day, after eighteen days, with the killing of the elder Kaurava Duryodhana in the hand of second Pandava brother Bhim. Sanjay looked at his king; the light of the west sun not touching where he is sitting creating a chiaroscuro environ in the room. The tired bated breath of the King was getting surpassed to Sanjay as the last few days sounds still enthrall him. He looked at the horizon, and said to self–


Deepness lies there in the open vastness, spread over the expanse of the field

to whom I am questionable to; to whom shall I pass this account of witness.

the wind that murmuring through out the field is it the wind or is it some soldier,

innocent and only there to fight for few golds, or,

as a man who should join the army for the king–

the age old tradition; you deny the duty to your King and reject to pay his

due you’re just incompetent as a man, you’re just an eunuch.

Dhritarashtra the King had regreted, when Krishna had shown his divine entity

‘fore all this started; now he’s silent not asking a question;

he’s not crying, he’s not raging he’s there sitting and lost;

his thoughts I can’t fathom; what’ll he dream to-night or had he ever dreamt.

Being a blind he had listened to a lot; had witness the events through his senses–

the defeat of Pandavas in the dice game, the urge of Draupadi before Dushyasan

tried to robe her off her honor, the wise advice of Bhisma, the plotting of Shakuni.

The silent wind over the battlefield; the orange of the west sun at the horizon

he hadn’t seen them it was I who had seen them, he hadn’t listened to war cries,

conch of the maharathis blown before the war for the day began, and the moans

of the soldiers while they die or breathing for the last few moments in the eve.

it was I who had listened to them. It was I who had to witness the killing of

Abhimanyu in the Chakravyuh; it was me who’d to see the assassination of Karna

by Arjun while he was armless, and struggling to pulled out the wheels of his

chariot from the ground, it was me who had to say all those incidents

never missing a bit out; I was there in the field, each and every eighteen days.

The conscience of the human get lost when it comes to their vanities,

when their ego get hurts, for their own deeds which they blame on others.

the war was not needed; the truce was not needed; the needed was listening.

the voice of Duryodhana still I can hear when he had said not to surrender

a land, even if it’s on tip of a needle, until he had die. The righteous ruler

will be judge by whom. The father or people of the kingdom. It is the time to me.

The enterprise of reasons and reasoning thus lie there, out there in the battle field

as they lie there lifeless on the battlefield

surrounding Bhisma on his bed of arrows,

on the bank of Dwaipayana where the eldest of Kaurava lies lifeless.

The sun now setting down bringing the darkness over the deads,–

man, horses, ethics, morality.

The battle was not needed but needed to set the balance

of good and its spoiled form, vanity and essence of it, age and its weight

in the form that is needed for next few decades, for next few chapters.

Written for Day 15 of National/Global Poem Writing Month 2019.


Our prompt for today (optional, as always), takes its inspiration from the idea of a poem as a sort of tiny play, which can be performed dramatically. In the 1800s, there was quite a fad for monologue-style poems that lend themselves extremely well to dramatic interpretations And Shakespeare’s plays are chock-a-block with them. Today, I’d like to challenge you to write your own dramatic monologue. It doesn’t have to be quite as serious as Browning or Shakespeare, of course, but try to create a sort of specific voice or character that can act as the “speaker” of your poem, and that could be acted by someone reciting the poem.


It or Eat: Bacon to Lost Weights

For more than a year, my fiance asking me to lose it in my ears.

The wetty (is it weighty) extras seems to be a lead, not letting me to lead to loose.

Exercising her right of love, she let me to exercise every morning–

Adjusting my time to write,

Making my drowsiness of the morn to mourn before bidding me.

A foot I need to put forward to the inch; but, the foot never got up to fall

No it’s not my lazyness, but, the will that will hold me back.

For more than six months, I’m trying to lose the urge to always eat–

the favorite snacks and tits-bits.

Though I’m fit than any other chubby, only I couldn’t fit into crowded bus or train.

Inch in the waist thus remain, same as the sun set in the west every eve.

Steak of issues of my favourite Nat Geo magazine arouse in the corner of the room,

Spiders now web their web there,

As our love increases surpassing all the issues and hours–

And thus our run to happyness remain a run.

I embrace her embarrasing the face.

To kiss her lips I leaps.

One week it is the extras feel weak as I exercised exercise.

Written for Day 14 of National/Global Poem Writing Month 2019.


Our prompt for the day (optional as always) takes its inspiration from Taylor Mali’s poem The The Impotence of Proofreading. As he shows us, there many words in English that sound like other words. For that matter, English has lots of words that look like other words, Today, we’d like to challenge you to write a poem that incorporates homophones, homographs, and homonyms, or otherwise makes productive use of English’s ridiculously complex spelling rules and opportunities for mis-hearings and mis-readings.



Dedicated to Bram Stoker…

when the sky will be silver, and the mango tree will suspire the breeze,

that’s when I’ll come to you

like the ebb tide touches the bank, dry, on the full moon with passion.

a nomad I’ve been for so many centuries; hiding and surviving anyhow

and now I’m going to lie down on your bosom, that’ll heave as you sleep.

when the sun will rise tomorrow and after so many tomorrows you will

search me I know around everywhere.

I’ll be there not beside you but inside you; where the heart beats and

mind subconsciously knows of my presence.

where the sound doesn’t resonated; where the echo has lost it ways

you’ll hear me at your ears–whispering–

calling your name; proposing my eternal love, my so-long long for you.

far far away I’ve come from; from the centuries you don’t remember

but I do as if it few days old

damned and cursed I may be, but, this love is not

Written for Day 13 of National/Global Poem Writing Month 2019.


Our optional prompt for the day takes its cue from Jack Prelutsky’s poem “The Witch”, as well as this poem by Dean Young, called “Belief in Magic.” Today, we’d like to challenge you to write a poem about something mysterious and spooky! Your poem could be about something that is mysterious and spooky in a bad way (like a witch), or mysterious and spooky in a good way (possibly also like a witch? It depends on the witch, I guess!) Or just the everyday, mysterious, spooky quality of being alive.



Somewhere, over the horizon where the cranes fly to, we’ll meet there

You had said me, when I had asked once what if we get departed, after a laugh.

Somewhere, when the moon will be full on the autumn eve, I’ll meet you there

I hadn’t said this to you as your words had started becoming dull for the whiskey.

Significant they are not as they were few years ago; dull and dusted you’re there

In the memoirs of my life which I’ll put down on the pages when they’ll be turned

Over by the autumnal winds–decades later or so, when you will be just a phase.

Written for Day 12 of National/Global Poem Writing Month 2019.


Our daily (optional) prompt! This one is based on a dream that the poet Natalie Eilbert had. In the dream, she was taking a poetry workshop in which each student had to bring in two objects from home – one significant and one dull. The students then had to give away or destroy the significant object, and write a poem about loving the dull thing. Today, we’d like to challenge you to write a poem about a dull thing that you own, and why (and how) you love it. Alternatively, what would it mean to you to give away or destroy a significant object?


Search of Homecoming Song

Where do I belong, I asked self as I look into the darkness between the stars.

The stars are there; dead long ago, but, still they are alive, shining at eve horizon.

Wherefrom do my voice sound, or, is it really my voice that I heard,

that others listen.

Where do I belong, I asked self as the dust from the bookshelves drizzle on me–

These days they gather dust and droppings of lizards and roaches, as I search my

home, where I used to belong to not where I belong now.

Where do I belong, is it on the sweat of cold drinks can that slide down and settled

on the table forming a circle, wet and moist.

I looked into the darkness of the galaxy that my city owned from time forgettable.

Who actually am I? Where do I belong to? Where do I belong in?

Written for Day 11 of National/Global Poem Writing Month 2019.


Today, taking a leaf from Elhillo’s work, we’d like to challenge you to write a poem of origin. Where are you from? Not just geographically, but emotionally, physically, spiritually? Maybe you are from Vikings and the sea and diet coke and angry gulls in parking lots. Maybe you are from gentle hills and angry mothers and dust disappearing down an unpaved road. And having come from there, where are you now?


Into the Kalbaisakhi

Dida used to say the sky is performing deyala.

The clouds formed up in the corner of the sky, and the wind breath like last breathe,

Naturally unnaturally the darkness descend bringing the night in early,

when there should be sun on the crescendo at the city summer sky (or)

when the sun is getting ready to bid the day coloring the sky with hazed blue.

The calling of the sky is the call for the housewives and maids to be on their heels.

If it’s noon,

dragging and hauling the washed clothes from the cloth lines.

If it’s evening,

the doors and windows are shut with loud bangs and thuds;

screaming and shouting to other members in the home

to participate in this bangs and thuds.

On the streets and roads; on the glasses of the corporate universe

it is storm is coming…there will be a rain.

When all are set in most of them though, not all

Kalbaisakhi ascend; sometimes harsh, sometimes soft

Everyone is jogger; running the marathon to home or some shelters–

or somewhere they are supposed to be.

The cab drivers smiled. It going to be their early peak time for the extra fare;

the hawkers pull and push tarpaulin or plastic covers over their goods.

The sky raises its voice, the flash starts lighting with loud claps of thunder.

These days though it doesn’t occur, but, in my childhood

I remember elder women, aunts and grandmothers and mothers used to–

blow conches saying it would calm the god of the sky, Varun Dev.

The rain falls sometimes jhir jhir, sometimes jhom jhom.

The sound is melancholy whatever the rain took form, as–

most of us miss our childhoods, when there were raincoats and kagojer nouka,–

and the mango showers. Followed by the scoldings by Ma.


The words in italic are terms that I free-translate to English from Bengali. They are very much colloquial to Kolkata, my city.

Dida is Bengali for grandmother.

Deyala is whimsical movements of a kid while sleeping, the smiling and laughing or weeping. Sometimes it is referred to the movement of the mouth on their face, opening up to catch breath or rubbing hands over eyes.

In the context of the poem, before a rain spell the sky sometimes sunny sometimes cloudy, and sometimes both,

Kalbaisakhi is the pre-monsoon storm followed by spell of rain happening mostly in April in Bengal. It is also known as Nor’westers.

Jhir jhir and jhom, jhom are respectively drizzling and torrential rain.

Kagojer nouka is paper boat.

Image procured from Google Search Engine.

Written for Day 10 of National/Global Poem Writing Month 2019.


Our prompt for the day (optional, as always), is also rooted in dialect and regional phrasing. In her poem “Sunshower,” Natalie Shapero finds inspiration in a rather colorful phrase used in Mississippi and Alabama to describe the situation in which it rains while the sun is shining.

Today, I’d like to challenge you to write a poem that starts from a regional phrase, particularly one to describe a weather phenomenon.


A Summer Morning Pentatonic

Things Needed for Repairing the Nest

Last Saturday, the two had sat on the electric wire. Distance between them was grabbing attention in the night halogened darkness. Their nest had been damaged by the twin evening storms. This morning the male crow working on the nest again while female crow awaits on another branch dancing in the summer morning wind. The male is bringing in branches from the trees on the side of the road. He’s also bringing in wide thick nylon rope from the prominent electric shop on the other side of road to fixed it by the side of the nest. The woman caw seeing him struggling with the rope to get it fixed in, to get it adjusted to repair the damaged broken nest. She might be laughing or she might be instructing him. The man looked at her, and caw at last, the rope in his beak fallen down on the courtyard of the neighbor house. The woman caw dancing on the branch as the man looked down. Is she laughing; yes she is.

Things to Make the Rags Become Rich

When it times to donation the rags became riches by filling the bag, torn and thrown away. Volunteer knows half a day or a day or two job of them to make the rags again rag. Poor soul they are or the ones who stuffed rags into bag to be rich.

Things to Cool Your Hot Tea in the Morning

Few days left to the selection process of public’s representatives. The tea glasses or the clay cups are brewing smoke. People are on heel dissecting the candidates. Newspaper publishing the mark-sheets of each candidates. Their age, their win and lost in their electoral years–past, their assets and the constitution they are standing in. Scandals and happenings are also coming out as skeleton would out of a wardrobe making the death walk. From court to courtyard, from cafes to pavements, every one gossiping on the election. Summer is really going to be a hot one this year with northwesters storms hurling in often.

Things that Breeze of Drawn Let to Fly

The morning is windy one. The cool breeze woke me up early. To-day is my holiday, but, the breeze woke me up. A dream I was having. I cannot recollect it now. I ponder over my pillow to find something to ruminate. And there she is beside me. A morning dream I know. The marriage is to happen next year. Is this a dream or a vision or some tricks my thoughts were playing in the morning?

Things Needed for the Meal for the Pigeons and Crows

I scattered the crumbs of the breads. The pigeons flies in. The crows flies in. The second group caws as if lodging objection to treat the first one first. I smiled at them before throwing some big pieces to them. They stop cawing, and started fighting to get the best pieces. The sun was slowly shining high and piercing. MET has predicted thunderstorm in the late noon or early eve. Till then the pigeons, the crows and me have to sweat in this hot.

Written for Day 9 of National/Global Poem Writing Month 2019.


Our (optional) prompt for the day asks you to engage in another kind of cross-cultural exercise, as it is inspired by the work of Sei Shonagon, a Japanese writer who lived more than 1000 years ago. She wrote a journal that came to be known as The Pillow Book. In it she recorded daily observations, court gossip, poems, aphorisms, and musings, including lists with titles like “Things That Have Lost Their Power,” “Adorable Things,” and “Things That Make Your Heart Beat Faster.” Today, I’d like to challenge you to write your own Sei Shonagon-style list of “things.” What things? Well, that’s for you to decide!



There’s a chill in the April night; unexpected one it is.

Winter is Coming…we’re listening for last eight years.

(But) that was not for Kolkata; but, for the made up world,

where a forged-sword iron throne everyone eyeing on,

Similar to the world our ancestors understood to leave,

for their next and coming generations, at late.

‘Substantial development’ they named it and theorized it.

Enjoying our coffee we murmured to self–

Chaap nis na…don’t take pressure. Everything’s going to be fine.

Like our fore-generation we listened to preaching of the preachers

Mentioning the melting of ice in Poles, hymns of temperature of the oceans rising.

We, but, still sit back, and curse others taking the guise of righteous citizen.

We choose one to lead us into peace forgetting there’s no such thing peace;

It’s just silence that need to be reached walking on the steps of ladder of chaos.

The division has now grown more vivid; more prominent

than the Great China Wall from the moon.

Running around, passing the files over the desks; sharing the memo–

We sit back in the cages made for us; temperature at our will.

Who will be the fall guy when there will be more water than land on earth?

Who will be the fall guy when there will be more meals for the scavengers–

after the bombs are hurled, and the guns are banged?

Chaap nis na will be our saying from the heaven or hell or wherever we’ll be or

will it be the motto for the children we would leave behind?

Note: Chaap nis na…is similar to don’t take pressure; everything will be fine. It is a sort of Bengali corporate argot that from higher rank to lower say whenever there’s a situation out of hand. In Hindi, there’s a similar one saying tension mat le…sab thik ho jayega…

Written for Day 8 of National/Global Poem Writing Month 2019.


Our prompt for the day (optional, as always), is inspired by Smith’s poem. You may have noted that the central metaphor of “Good Bones” turns on a phrase used by real estate agents. Today, I’d like to challenge you to think about the argot of a particular job or profession, and see how you can incorporate it into a metaphor that governs or drives your poem.


Those Years

Nothing to ask for except the memories

of the time I have spend with my father.

First five years of my life.

I do not remember him, I couldn’t recollect him.

He’s just the framed photograph of a man

Resembling him is me, his son;

He’s just the mythological character

whom people talk of, recollect the time.

Envy. It is envious often when this happen.

Nothing I’ve been asking for.

I am not asking for return to the time,

but, the ability to recollect of that hazed

golden webbed misted five years.

Written for Day 7 of National/Global Poem Writing Month 2019.


Our prompt for the day (optional, as always) is also inspired by McKibbens, who posted this thought on her Twitter account a few months back:

What do you deserve? Name it. All of it. What are you ready to let go of? Name that too. Then name the most gentle gift for yourself. Name the brightest song your body’s ever held. Summon joy like you would a child; call it home. It wanders, yes. But it’s still yours.

Today, we’d like to challenge you to write a poem of gifts and joy. What would you give yourself, if you could have anything? What would you give someone else?


What if Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi was born in 1996?

What if Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi was born in 1996?

How would he have looked at this world?

Would he have been the dove carrying the message of peace or–

Would he have been the advocate of the peace?

What if Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi was born in 1996?

Should he’ve gone into the deep of the events of the 1992 or 1993;

Should he’ve remembered the 1999 Kargil War or 2001 11th September–

When he would’ve grown up in to-day?

What would he would’ve done when the world cheered for the assassinations–

of dictator Saddam Hussein, of the terrorist Bin Laden?

What would’ve been his speech of condolence

when Alan Kurdi washed up on the beach?

What would he would’ve said to the Mumbai Attack 2008?

What if Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi was born in 1996,

Would he have been thrown away from the train to-day–

And would the paparazzi, cell phone journalist protest with him in front?

What if Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi had been born in 1996

Would have the world listened to his teaching of peace, non-violence?

Would have the world understand the meaning of peace?

What if…

Note: When, on 7th of June, 1893, Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi was thrown from the train Pietermaritzburg  he was 23 years old. So, standing in 2019 to reflect that age where Satyagraha had started, the year 1996 has been chosen. I refrain from using the title Mahatma because it was bestowed on him by Rabrindranath Tagore in 1915.

The events of 1992 means the demolition of the Babri Masjid on 6th December 1992 and, Bombay Blast that had occurred on 12th March 1993.

Written for Day 6 of National/Global Poem Writing Month 2019.


For our (optional) prompt, today, we’d like to challenge you to write a poem of the possible. Write a poem that emphasizes the power of “if,” of the woulds and coulds and shoulds of the world.


Few Minutes Away From Ten O’Clock


Looking from a window above, it’s like a story of love; can you hear me. [1]

All are busy, all are in their own worlds, in their thoughts.

Oh think twice, ’cause it’s another day for you and me in paradise. [2]


The sun is shining high on the summer sky; rain has been forecasted in eve.

But, we’ve no time for that; we only know the sprint to the made here-I-should-be.

Looking from a window, it’s like a story of love; can you hear me.


The old man is sweating: he’s out of pension; a year he has retired from the job.

No one has time to look at him; asked him are you okay; it’ll be detour from the walk–

Oh think twice, ’cause it’s another day for you and me in paradise


The husband has boarded the bus; his son and wife bidding him; she’ll go to work–

Living the little one at the creche. A tinge of happiness I brushed in to their life.

Looking from a window above, it’s like a story of love; can you hear me.


The bank has open as the old man looked at his clock; he wiped his forehead.

His grandchild going to be born tomorrow or next day of ‘morrow–I imagined.

Oh think twice, ’cause it’s another day for you and me in paradise.


The cacophony and the bustling of the morning will slow down.

No one, me too, will remember the old man and the couple.

Looking from a window above, it’s like a story of love; can you hear me.

Oh think twice, ’cause it’s another day for you and me in paradise.

[1] Only You–Enrique Iglesias

[2] Another Day in Paradise–Phil Collins


Written for Day 5 of National/Global Poem Writing Month 2019.


For our daily prompt (optional as always). Today’s prompt comes from another poem by Kyle Dargan, called “Diaspora: A Narcolepsy Hymn.” This poem, like “Call and Response,” is inspired by the work of others – in this case, the poet Morgan Parker, and lyrics from songs by Beyoncé and The Notorious B.I.G. The poem also partakes of one of the most difficult poetic forms, the villanelle.

And to make it an even more virtuoso performance, Dargan’s alternating lines, besides being taken from songs, express “opposing” ideas, with one being about sleeping, and the other waking.

Following Dargan’s lead, today we’d like to challenge you to write a poem that incorporates at least one of the following: (1) the villanelle form, (2) lines taken from an outside text, and/or (3) phrases that oppose each other in some way. If you can use two elements, great – and if you can do all three, wow!


Melted Ice Cream

Looking around emptiness she felt

Not first this was but many of the times.

The ice cream in the bowl had melt.

She was startled as the clock chimes;

She doesn’t know to count,

She only knows to listen sounds

and orders; the darkness was her muse.

Next to her were the twin hounds

who’re growling depriving of to choose.

Freedom all they wanted

Not these leashes. or, these chains.

She lick into the bowl of ice cream, melted;

Few hours ago her four pups were taken away.

Breeding season this is, maybe one of the twin next.

Note: There are few kennels which illegally uses female dogs for breeding and selling their pups away. This poem is against this practice. Don’t buy, adopt them. Don’t pet them for breeding but love and respect them as you should to any of your female family member.


Written for Day 4 of National/Global Poem Writing Month 2019.


For today’s (optional) prompt, inspired by Craig Morgan Teicher poem “Son“. One thing to notice about this poem is that it is sad, but that it doesn’t generate that feeling through particularly emotional words. The words are very simple. Another thing you might notice is that it’s a sonnet – not in strict iambic pentameter, but fourteen rhymed, relatively short lines.

Today, we’d like to challenge you to write your own sad poem, but one that, like Teicher’s, achieves sadness through simplicity. Playing with the sonnet form may help you – its very compactness can compel you to be straightforward, using plain, small words.


Morn Kissed Leaves

Not all the time I had of the earth as I stand in my little bit of balcony,

Morning tea in my hand; waiting for the office cab to turned up at my door.

There’s a chill in the wind; winter was bidding letting the spring in.

The neighbor neem tree stands there, bare and naked with its leaves scattered

On the dew-wet alley down my building.

The branches were waving against its will; leaves it all wants and nothing else.

A car zipped away on the bypass giving the serenity of the morning a momentary–

Noise, a momentary tune to sing to.

The branch that had gotten broken last monsoon now stands lean down with the–

Morn sun-yellow on it. It had grown brown on the broken ankle, and some moss.

It is shy showing how broken it is not strong as all know.

A cab stopped in front of my door. Not all the time I had in the world.

The spring had come; it had gone. Now’s the time for summer.

The brownish green leaves dancing in the morning breeze; flowers had grown

Perfuming the environ with its tangent sweet smell. A mesmerizing effect getting–

Created as the young tender leaves waltz along with the smell getting strong.

The morn sun-yellow broken branch, not so brown not so green smiling it seems.

A cab stopped at my door. Bliss bid. Solitary bids. Loneliness crept in.

But, I do not had all the time in the world to experience all these.


Written for Day 3 of National/Global Poem Writing Month 2019.


Today’s prompt is based in a poem by Larry Levis called “The Two Trees.” It is a poem that seems to meander, full of little digressions, odd bits of information, but fundamentally, it is a poem that takes time. It takes its time getting where it’s going, and the action of the poem itself takes place over months. Today, I’d like to challenge you to similarly write something that involves a story or action that unfolds over an appreciable length of time. Perhaps, as you do, you can focus on imagery, or sound, or emotional content (or all three!)


Lamentation of a Fairy

The wind pushing afar, us and we, standing on the verge of the cliff

The wind not letting us to be down, to be to the sea down the cliff.

Our wings, majestic and royal, are not clipped but torned away bit by bit

Often by the nails and rods of the growing palaces in the jungle;

Sometimes by the aspiration and thrusted-goals thrown-pasted to the streets.

A push and we’ll fly again; down and down and down, just downright fly.

Is it evanescere?

But, the wind not letting us going away–anyway, any manner.

The salt in the breath of the wind titillating our wound, tormenting us–

To realize not in the pages of lore, not in the lore of the grandparents we live.

We are just individual, us and we, that just need to pass through the expanse

Spreads ‘fore us. Walking not fly we all need to perform.

Horizon, that can’t be seen, is there we all know but how its look we don’t know.

Bit by bit existence of us elucidating as the mid-day summer sun.

Is this what evanesce?


evanescere: Latin: disappear, vanish

evanesce: pass out of sigh, memory or existensce


Written for Day 2 of National/Global Poem Writing Month 2019.


Today’s prompt (optional, as always) is based on The Meadow, The River by Claire Wahmanholm, which transforms the natural world into an unsettled dream-place. One way it does this is by asking questions – literally. The poem not only contains questions, but ends on a question. Today, I’d like to challenge you to write a poem that similarly resists closure by ending on a question, inviting the reader to continue the process of reading (and, in some ways, writing) the poem even after the poem ends.


At the Evening They’ll Glow

Bucket reads: Starry Night; weighs five gallon of Royal-Blue-Night-Sky Shade.

“You’ll feel it’s a clear summer eve, don’t you like Summer then make it Spring…”

Says the salesperson–what was her name…Rose or Rosey, her badge was saying

A pretty girl of mid twenties with no ring on the finger, and slender lips.

Bag reads: Stars; weighs two point five gram of stars of the seasonal sky you want.

“You’ll feel the stars as you gaze on them at the night…are you married or going to…”

Says Rose or Rosey (why the heck I cannot recollect her name)

A pretty girl with black long hair braided carefully and neatly on the top.

“Brush is outdated, you know; try this Giraffe Neck roller…it’s like a selfie stick…”

She had said; picking this one up for me; her hands were fair and slender

And she smelled of jasmine or was it of chrysanthemums freshly bloomed.

Opening the lid I smelt the paint; it’s varnish pungent color.

The royal blue poured down in the paint tray–not she but I chosen this.

And swap swap swap.

The late morning turns to noon; the lunch time.

Is she having her lunch right now or helping another lost soul through the aisle

For the paint project or is she flirting with some one from the store.

I ate my lunch–cold sandwich bought this morning on return from the store.

I light a cigarette and look around; the blue is pale not royal; it’s still wet–

“Give two hours or three as walls soak it; and at two with the roller roll the stars in”

She had said while putting the stars in cart before picking up the roller.

Her voice was serene and calm; enchanting one; soft and reverberating one.

The stars had been rolled on before the lunch on one wall; evening they will glow

Not she but the bag of stars said, carrying it as the tagline of its.

Swap swap swap swap

Evening coming down; now’s the time to rest, and let the wall get dry,

And let the stars glow in this sky of the walls.

I looked at him, and he looked at me.

I was there to buy color not so royal not so glamorous one,

But, pale yellow one–my favorite color; costing much less than this

Royal-Blue-Night-Sky but the Pale-Daffodil one.

He smiled at me as I looked at him.

Rose or Rosey–whatever her name was, is here inside my mind.

I looked around; the green red yellow right of the traffic down the road;

The cacophony of the eve-home-returning is touching crescendo;

The neon glow sign of the electric store on other side of the road

Casting its presence on the wall–freshly painted royal blue;

But, the stars haven’t shined yet.

I looked at him–my reflection in the mirror.

Disheveled hair, spots of paints, and tired eyes. Stars haven’t shined yet.

“As the evening will roll in to night…turn the light off…and let the sky be your roof…”

She said as I closed my eyes with hunger in stomach; stars remaining in city sky–

Not on the sky of the roof.

The fool sitted there at the mirror lookin’ over the painted sky,

And thinking a date with Rose (or Rosey) or not under that in the light of candles.


Written for Day 1 of National/Global Poem Writing Month 2019.


Write poems that provide the reader with instructions on how to do something. It can be a sort of recipe or you could try to play on the notorious unreliability of instructional manuals (if you’ve ever tried to put IKEA furniture together, you know what I mean). You could even write a dis-instruction poem, that tells the reader how not to do something.


Self Portrait as Dushyanta

How long I’m riding through this jungle

I don’t know.

I know only her face; I know of the moments we spent.

First time I saw her beside the river.

Serene, calm, composed moment was that.

How much I miss her–are there’re words to speak of the ache.

How long I’m riding through this jungle .

I don’t know.

Last time I saw her crying and sobbing at my feet

As I denied her and cursed her calling her

Dirty and filthy, jungle living maiden.

A ring she had said gifted by me to her ‘fore I return

Or is it before we had have our farewell.

The ring now I hold close to me.

It has remain with the fish

As she had remain with me in my hazed dreams

In my leisure moments as a smile,–

As a lighting in new moon eve.

How long I’m riding through this jungle

(Or will it be the life)

Searching for her, my love

(Or will it be the truth–

The truth, love can happened, it never occurred).

How long I am going to ride before I meet her

And what’ll I say when I’ll look into her eyes…

Written for Early Bird Prompt, National/Global Poem Writing Month 2019.

A poem in which you portray yourself in the guise of a historical or mythical figure.



The old horse neigh echoing the oldness of the alley where it was sheltered–

A destitute building with ferns and mosses, grown freshly last monsoon, and now multicolored;

An owner who has no one to look after him; a room he lives broken with seasonal winds and–

Breeze waltzing through the broken window pane–located overlooking his chest.

There was a door to the room of prestigious mahogany wood, but, thief had stolen it long ago.

The old horse neigh resonating the broken cough of the owner of the shelter, again.

The old man, whose beard had grown monsoon-moss colored green,–

And the eyes have got buried in the hole with the mouth being dead brown–

Lying on the bed like a skin of a snake–skeletal and all, is not the owner of the horse.

The horse, old and worn, tired and proud, neigh again to the brontide or–

Was it another building crumbling down in the storm, first one of spring welcoming summer.

His forehead over the bridge of nose till the throat latch were visible, though, with effort.

The strangler figs had strangled him long ago before the owner of the house passed away–

Few weeks ago, when there was a rain and he, the horse, neigh at top of his voice.

There were no one to feed the owner of the house, there were no one to feed the horse.

But, still it survives as the spirit of the night rode him through the alley of the oldest part–

Of the city, and let him feed on the soul they met on their rides.

The dead man was not his owner–the horse neigh again as lighting strikes and–

Drizzle started–he was his rider only who know how to use him to gather money–

For his gamble games and whores and drinks.

The horse neigh resonating the oldness of the shelter; the spirit will not come he lest know of it.

His call, repeated ones, mocking the old owner’s cough. The green of the fig dripping down–

Over his faint mane making him green–a fresh coat over the pale brown one.

A building broken down somewhere in the alley; somewhere a window was thud loud.

The horse neigh as the fig strangle him to hush him; the rain splash on the moss grown chest–

Of the dead man.


P.S. This is an Ekphrasis inspired by the painting shared at Ronovanwrites for Guess That Art III

রঙ পেন্সিল, জল‌ রঙ ছাপিয়ে

  পশ্চিমের রঙে উজ্জ্বল তারের সমষ্টিতে

নিঃশ্বাস নেয়ে আমাদের ভালোবাসা

            আসন্ন ঝড়ে আদর খেলবে বলে

সমান্তরাল ভাবে চলে আমাদের জীবন

ছায়াতে আমাদের মিলন।

ব্যস্ত সময়ের আয়না অস্থির ঝাপসা

তার‌ই মধ্যে আমাদের আলাপচারিতা।

মন খারাপের অবকাশ পেলে

না-বলারা এসে দাঁড়ায় রাস্তার পাশে;

এক মুঠো রাত তখন চাঁদের বুড়ির চরকায়

মিহি স্বপ্নের আলপোনা বোনে।