paper-buckles
1.
any colour may be applied to the
night-dress
this city actually has no cart
driven by horses
before a pretty long time the shepherds
had also told adieu
by secret signalling the red-hat addiction
called the pigeons sitting on the broken sticks
of the antenna to come nearer
on those dead-news the travel-story
keeps awake by whole night
and pours down on eye-lids
clouds
wrapped with cellophane
one day that wave sent
rolling-down-on-the-back hair
to the yellow balcony
those are all ancient drama
in the glow of the back-light you can see
civic humps have grown up on the back
of the birds every day and night
yet
under the dead-stop ceiling fan the dance
of the virgin reel wet with sweat does not fall short
the paper-buckles with the flowers painted on it
gets more and more tight on the air of the throat
velpuris of the evening
offer full enjoyment
2.
the night that comes all walking on the sands of the desert
how much concern does she has about the navigability of the river
when the husk of the water-chestnut is got open
flowing down the waves bursting into a blaze
to that flow is open the motor-car
the wan procession
and all the fishes that want to go upward the wave
so many varieties of floating
if the matter of clouds be let off
the multi-coloured fingers
also have so many infotainments
if the question of moveable property is raised
it is only a suicide-note from my father
and a knot
in the robe of the blue trouser
3.
the trees and creepers of the night
and the plants and herbs of the day
do all of them have the same blood-group
there is much flora
inside the jail-custody also
and in this ruins of the old palace
how much is it justified
to express eagerness about the geography
of one's character
specially of the trees
of the fishes
or of the humans
it is said
all rivers
flowing through the bodies of the great men
are totally virgin
there is also the blank desert
on the silent snow-valley
in the corner of your
lips
4.
on this spine
having a mouth of crocodile
always jump down
the climate
everyday
the sunglass changes
look at the soil and the sky
no one of them has any body-guard
the open mouth of the light
swallows the grey coin
here the wall becomes more tamed
the wild jasmine comes nearer to the heart
and hums
then ripping open my veins
should i also vomit the blue elocution
accumulated on the cock-pit
after recovery of the flower-mill from fever
the harmonium is being played on
even introduction with the gas-balloon
has not been done yet
5.
arrangements are being made
the green shirt will gradually
turn reddish
the culverts that have become exhausted
within the travel-format
will get recharged again to sit up straight
and the hawker will get passed the silent-home
shouting with undressed coconuts in hands
from the lap of the stand-still rocking-cradles
of the children-park
the amaltas will say
i'm ready
then to escape the sun-shine
the boy who comes to attend the private tuition
will embrace... oh margosa ... its your pierced-heart
you may tell him that the name of the girl
who is eating guava and swinging her legs
sitting on its branch is munni
6.
the horse is running
just above 3 feet of the yellow cornice
his back is full of dreams
or a girl named miss dorothy
around it is the mid-night
around it is the wind that wants to be printed
and in every corner of its flying
are hundreds of skirts
all are of free-size
what may be their market-price
there is no shop-keeper there
in that valley
a shadow is proceeding on
do you know whose shadow it is
he is philip the teacher who gets irritated easily
this time there is no thin cane
in his hand
in the pieces of papers dumped in the waste-box
under his window there is a manuscript eaten up by the worms
there is 'darling' there
and 'yours beloved greta'
in which skirt
a touch of that greta does remain
is it being searched even today
is it greta or margaret or eliza
there is no bar if it is dorothy
in whose smell there is no greta
who has no such horse flying just above three feet
of the yellow cornice
each mid-night fills the fountain pen
with the flow of blue ink
7.
the leaf of jack-fruit is luxuriant
i can't remember whether i ever notice
the portrait of your face on it
there are so many words
that are slippery
how much rustic is the dust of the legs
of the young person is known to the road of the city
daubing green on both palms
i call for rain ...oh rain ..oh rain
and into that rain i let my wrist-watch float
thus the great rainbow unfolds its wise mirror
on the scaffold of bottle-gourd
from the bright cloth-end falling down
the odour of detergent
thus the applied mathematics of the diesel
is learnt to a greater extent
8.
behind the change of colour of the swelled wind
the samovar plays no role
though you know it you tear off tears
from your eyes
and the merry biscuits that are kept in the jar
raise a joint demand to serve them
after wrapping with new banana-leaves
and the funny thing is that no accounts is found out
of the expenditure on the lip-stick that was used
by the fishes in the aquarium at the time of illness
of the antenna
by the hands of the clock stretching their shanks apart
is it possible to know the actual age of a comb
either it's costly or cheap
9.
like the light
like the dark
yet it is full of the sound of steps
again it wakes up on the forest-road
taking leave from the yellow construction
all the sound of the bamboo-flute
sinks today into the green minerals
it is not moonlight
on the road it is some north-east sadness
he who comes admits his body
with the divine sin
if you are sorry be water for three days now
through out the day and night
there is the paraffin of fire-flies
the blue cough is not from the sky
it may be some tusu-gaan fly off
from the chest of the straight-line
that has been wiped out
10.
i've deposited my metallic heart
to the archaeological-store of the wind
and i send rolling this bare eyes towards the fog
frequently
i make the crystal of her hair soft
i can see those crows
whose jaws are not closed
the colour is also
as if it were burst into cotton
can the anchal of danekhali sari swallow the kernel
and water of the blue tooth-brash after opening its husk
i say to the head with earnest request
oh my father keep cool
and look at the rain-pipe inside which
there is all the dances of the peacocks
11.
in the dim light
the predecessors of the dead stars
tell stories
this dhaba
is beside the long bus-root
yet it is still not satisfied
with the shrimps
the tail of the black drongo
hanging from the farakka bridge
is divided
towards the ganga
towards the padma
the gramophone of the mid-noon
continues to sound at the midnight
those who are doing pilgrimage
on the back of tigers
within the lighting zone of their torch
all the nearest of men who get lost
cover their faces
you know very well that the memory-gland of the wind
becomes how much river-minded when it walks through the fire
Poetry by murari sinha
Read 544 times
Written on 2010-04-23 at 15:56
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