Wish You’re Here…

 

The nights are windy here. The coldness that engulf me now is not the temperature

of here. It is of your absence. The only thing that keeping me warm is your presence

in memories. I can smell the perfume of yours, though musty but still I can sense

you. I miss those nights when you used to lay on my bosom and let the air splash hair–

strands or locks–of yours on me. Oh, I miss you right now that I can stole a plane and

fly to you. I wish not the gun, not my fellow soldiers,but, you’re with me in this turmoiled

peaceful night. I long for you, I long your presence…I miss you and wish you’re here…


De aka Whimsygizmo wants us to write a postcard poem for D’Verse Poetics Tuesday. So, here’s mine sort of reply to my dear Blogger Friend Stardust’s Wish You Were Here.


A-Z Challenge Letter P for Pray…P for Passion…P for Post Card Poem

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Night

-1-

(the clock shows it’s quarter past twelve)

The moon is yellow on the sleeping, though awaken, city neon sky

The crescent it is. The streets are halogen in color; they’re empty

Like today’s page of my diary. A car whoosh as a word crossed my mind

Disappearing behind my line of sight into the darkness of the night.

Prevalence silence is now that an erratic mind needs to delve into the creation.

-2-

The moon, my eyes went to, from my window of my room is showing its marks.

You know, what are they…they are mountains of the moon…my Grandma had taught,

Once, I was young and was gazing at the moon when there was a power cut.

You know…after a couple of years when we’ll get marry we’ll see the moon together…

I’ll wrap you in my arms…your head will rest on my bosom…she had said once.

-3-

I’ve got a pack of cigarettes, nine in number. Three or one more will get burn.

In the darkness of my room the edge glow like a firefly. Reminiscent of

Childhood knocking where there were trees, there were shrubs. And

There was much darkness than now. And the blinking fireflies used to dance

On those little verdant neighbor of mine like the daisy chain hang in a festival.

-4-

An ambulance runs in haste. Its siren had been heard before a few seconds ago.

Now it is seen as the white flash with blurred siren light. The resonance remain

As posit before washing away with time. The man (or is it a woman) will live

For the night or not is the thought I played on before moving on to another.

(Death has a under-the-breath relation with the night I deduce before moving on.)

-5-

A crow caws putting a halt to my chain of thoughts. This little balcony of mine

Is misty from the smoke of the cigarette. They caw again. Are they asleep?

Or are they calling out of sleep? The depth of silence got redefine as they caw

From my neighbor neem tree. I inhale the nocturnal breeze before lighting another

cigarette. The flapping of wings was heard. I look around at my sleeping neighborhood.

-6-

The breeze is serene. It sings in a somber tune. Few like me wants to sleep but can’t.

Like my neighbor. She is sitting on the parapet of her window and talking on the phone.

I have seen her. But, don’t know whether she has. She may have seen the flicker of

My cigarette. I’m not sure ’cause she is a silhouette in the street light. I also used to

Wake like this. Not long ago. But, long ago, once. The rhythm is now melancholic.

-7-

The urban development has erased many things, made extinct almost many things.

Like the civets. Two are, now, on the prowl walking with an elan on my corner

Neighbor’s flat. One seems to be elder from size; another junior–may be its child.

Once, when the season was summer or monsoon, we’ve to keep close the doors

And windows protecting the fruits and meals from this notorious nocturnal hunter.

-8-

You feeling sleepy… drowsy…do not surpass your yawn; don’t keep the urge of

Sleep to be unsaid. Sleep. Sleep, my friend. I’ll be here, right next to you

(If you want) or right at your head reading in the dim street light or just

Typing down my ideas slowly and silent as a mouse shall be or thief shall be.

Sleep. Sleep, my friend. The night is coming to an end.

(the clock shows it’s half past three)

~~xx~~

The featured image is Nocturne: Black and Gold – The Fire Wheel by James Abbott McNeil Whistler (1834-1903)


National Poetry Writing Month Day#17: Nocturne

A-Z Challenge Letter N for Night…N for Nocturne…

Quintet (Clerihew)

Another interesting prompt–Clerihew. It’s a whimsical, four-line biographical poem. So, as a Bengali and as Indian we have few colorful characters. I’m taking my takes on four such personalities and a popular animated character to write clerihews on. I’ve also attached few line bio on each character to know them better along with events or facts that I’ve referred to in my clerihew on them for your, my reader, conveniences.  Continue reading “Quintet (Clerihew)”

The Echo of the Vale (Haibun)

The moon for long is curtain by the clouds. Its glow can be though feel as an outline for the clouds. The travellers speed up their movements. They has heard of some unnatural phenomenon going for a last couple of months. Did you hear that…one ask another in shaken whisper voice. Another nod his head in negative.

she look at them from

distance she like one tonight

but moon will be full 

The moon suddenly come out of the clouds. The field becomes white; the trees there cast a long shadow. She looks behind hearing a noise. The hunter has been on her for last few days. She needs to be careful more than she was last full moon. She felt a usurp inside her. She knows it has begun. She ran to the deep in the forest.

vale echo her howl two

travellers forget path

hunter fail to aim 

~~xx~~

Tried a Haibun for the first time. Let me know your comment and reviews. 


Daily Prompt: Unravel

A-Z Challenge Letter J

Tried an Haibun. A new Journey I taken on.

Melancholia

 

Sylvia Plath is one of my favorites American poet. When today I read her featured interview, I want to write something like her, something like “angry” poem. I do not prefer to go out of the prompt. So, I write for the prompt–the Bop inspired by Plath. Let me know what you think of this attempt of mine. Will eagerly wait for all of yours comments.


An issue arose as I woke up that morning–an April morning–few days ‘fore my

birthday. The issue I would not be able to define. It was somewhere between anger

and disturbed, between cursing and writhing. It was like someone had chained me

to the hook–by the neck, by the ankles, and by the wrists; I wanted to scream, but,

I could not because of the others and the morning serenity they were basking in.

I felt to lie back and close my eyes, but, they were adamant. They want as they were.

Give me a paper and a pen…if not…then give me cyanide…give me something to be asleep

I lie. I lit a cigarette. The smoke swirls up and got splashed–flat and dismantled; the

fan overhead seems to be moving in slowest speed and slowly softly chanting. I felt the

loneliness coming up from my foot; breathing on my legs and it soon will be upunder to

the waist. Fuck….I cursed self. And put my hand under my head. Loneliness sighs and lies

down beside me. I felt sleepy; a cloud of drowsiness swimming over my eyes. The taste

of the cigarette was bitter–it is at the end. I want to write. I want to vent out. I want to be

satiated; I want my heart to be sore. But, the shackles were clasping me; new cigarette

light up, like a phoenix, from the flame of the last one. The loneliness seducing me on a

fresh trial. I got up and looked in the mirror. Another me standing there bared all.

Give me a paper and a pen…if not…then give me cyanide…give me something to be asleep

I walked to the balcony. Everyone running; everyone fleeing. The cacophony of the

traffic was at high, composed at a haphazard, zig zag note. My eyes roam ‘fore fixating at

the neighbor’s attic. The girl, living there, standing in her innerwear and applying color

on her lips. The haunted feel pushed me to see her as I  decide to walk away; it breathes

on my shoulder letting me think the rejected act the best now. Fuck…I say aloud and walk

to the bathroom. And put head under running tap over the filling tub. Melancholia I’m in.

Give me a paper and a pen…if not…then give me cyanide…give me something to be asleep


National Poetry Writing Month Day#11: Bop Poem

A-Z Challenge Day#9: I

A Bop Poem inspired by Sylvia Plath form of writing


Penultimate

I

don’t know

whether I’ll be able

to learn the name of this moment.

The weak light from west forming a pattern

The lattice is the sculptor for this abstract drawing.

The wind that meant to soothe me is breathless and silent

The ants have assemble in a clutter; they’ll soon form a queue to me

I lay. Let my body relax and my breath to be relaxed

The cleft is getting narrower as time

cheat me being insidious

Death is simple

I know

now

~~~~~

Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie Wordle #149

A-Z Challenge Day#8: H

Today tried a Structural Poem.


Featured Image: Death of Casagemas by Pablo Picasso