The Music-room of Fire and Rain
Canto 0
My ribs in rage; and I
All entangled by the sky…
Filled my flesh with pinion wave!
Mutton broth over,
A hearth to save…
I crossed step after step,
Rib after rib.
My body a petrol-pump,
My body a gas pyre,
Knew on flying that…
At the end of a cage
All our myths roll over a tyre.
Our obedient sighs take the rounds
And balance on cremation grounds!
Over trees I recline
And suddenly comprehend
I am so light;
In the skies
They know me as air!
Ribs, oh ribs
Bickering bare
In this breeze—
A dumb-school,
And the music-room of fire and rain—
In mutual toleration?
Hearken
From the radio-wave
Our haloless flute,
Our infinite atoms, bathing and prayers,
Grass-fodder and evening-mass.
We are all ribs
That come flying
Only to find
A love-plant and an eight-metalled cave,
Erring banks and a tree between…
May be my ribs!
Canto I
Before you bite
See how far legendary Time
Has spread its wings.
Rain
Means oxygen—
And this even numbs
A ferocious cat.
A blind Master in a call-girl’s room,
Black-board ahead,
Chalk and pen.
’Tis tough, that grammar…
About the birth of the Universe,
And silent— that mother—
Her paint-box and brush
(Sandy, sleepy tunes),
And from the child’s heart are lit
A thousand lunatic dunes
Or ovens!
And around that Master hovers
A shiny razor.
Canto II
In water dipped, and heavy,
I turn into a plant;
Still and cold
Like the moon beside mist
Raising its trunk
To dine on Night.
The stars come weeping,
Wrenching chunks of flesh
With red-light lanes inside.
Logos-ultimate—
Whisperings of a tipsy cloud
On a broken vagina.
With pinion fixture flies Stone—The Great.
Fires spread.
Deer bursts ope’ doe-skin to die.
Ornate passions spread here and nigh.
Canto III
From the cremation-patch
I have brought…
A claw-scratch!
I look outside from my room,
A town too gummy…
Hangs from a pregnant ave’s tummy.
I met the bread and ale
Of the crematorium-caretaker—
Blue eggs, bathing in rain,
We prick them too with needles
Again and again;
We shake calcium and tannin
In out dramatic body-beaker.
Yet that surprising rage braves…
To stay.
If that long-been-pregnant
Spreads her legs, I’d say—
“Innocence is good. Yet grapes
Are sour on the tongue.”
Canto IV
After shock-therapy
I return to my study
And clasp the table.
Prising at my albino skin
I dream of a flying machine—
A cycle—
In my vision of a thousand earthliness,
Genitals of the Sun and Night
Mingle…
Together with the petty young grass.
Insomniac, I…
Swallow medicinal sanity!
Mossy nerves beneath the pond
Call again.
Stories of the married trees
Flay this brain.
Pesitons or Valium Fives
Wash me in.
Canto V
To stifle Seeds
Excited cloudy clusters pray.
When these seeds die in women’s wombs,
Language of insects will stay.
And you won’t get water
In the dusk-red spa.
Dark sleep comes;
With pounds of flesh
Converse owls.
Wedded wives crave to encounter fouls.
They wish to be raped.
Natura Naturata
Evolves in the nursing home!
And water…I crave for
Water!
Rotted, we remain
Bastardized in muddy vein
(Our swampy alma-mater)!
Canto VI
Grandfather dust and vermillion
In an array,
(Though ladies’ minion)
Suddenly one day
Strip the women.
A field where horses pee
In March’s urgency,
A weird neigh again!
How much can I even narrate,
The tale of a tigress sedate,
With a singed tongue?
The head— a hooded snake,
For consecutive sighs’ sake…
Rounds up the shy moon rehung.
You, like a zombie, lay
For the last thousand years.
You may rise if you pay…
Heed to the quarreling birds—
A couple of martins, symbols-soaked.
That cirrus-blue betimes
With signs of marriage…
Between me and you it chimes.
Canto VII
“The belly-button or the umbilical pod
Too can its beauty afford”—
Said the artist and went to pour
Water (to get a slippery floor)
With his blue hands.
Echoes in a game duck—
Wild-horse in radar—
Rain-tart rolls down the cheek.
A thousand glow-worms get stuck
To a woman’s breast
When he with her perspires.
And cherry-wet that narrow path;
And weeping willows
The fallopian tubes, where life bellows.
Too many lives and ample photographs
Too many excuses for picnic-buffs.
Binoculars on snakes’ heads
To watch women bathe
Or perform intercourse in their beds.
There is a line of cots
In our line of thoughts!
Canto VIII
Two school-girls
And an apple of gold—
Compose…
Our classroom fold!
Cloudy mosquito-nets are spread
Inside the skull,
There sleeps the womb-bird.
I teach them compositions.
Swallowing sputum while teaching
I reach bubbles, microbes, or sketch
Some archetypal peacock’s preaching.
Nights roll out from the torch
While a retina-filled ambulance
Hits the road! By the porch
Or scaffolded stairs’ incandescence…
The golden apple rises up intact.
Rape transforms…
Into artifact!
I dig up the earth
To plant…
A vagina aslant,
While I to myself hum
Songs of this red drum. Calcutta, 28.01.07 — 09.02.07
Canto 0
My ribs in rage; and I
All entangled by the sky…
Filled my flesh with pinion wave!
Mutton broth over,
A hearth to save…
I crossed step after step,
Rib after rib.
My body a petrol-pump,
My body a gas pyre,
Knew on flying that…
At the end of a cage
All our myths roll over a tyre.
Our obedient sighs take the rounds
And balance on cremation grounds!
Over trees I recline
And suddenly comprehend
I am so light;
In the skies
They know me as air!
Ribs, oh ribs
Bickering bare
In this breeze—
A dumb-school,
And the music-room of fire and rain—
In mutual toleration?
Hearken
From the radio-wave
Our haloless flute,
Our infinite atoms, bathing and prayers,
Grass-fodder and evening-mass.
We are all ribs
That come flying
Only to find
A love-plant and an eight-metalled cave,
Erring banks and a tree between…
May be my ribs!
Canto I
Before you bite
See how far legendary Time
Has spread its wings.
Rain
Means oxygen—
And this even numbs
A ferocious cat.
A blind Master in a call-girl’s room,
Black-board ahead,
Chalk and pen.
’Tis tough, that grammar…
About the birth of the Universe,
And silent— that mother—
Her paint-box and brush
(Sandy, sleepy tunes),
And from the child’s heart are lit
A thousand lunatic dunes
Or ovens!
And around that Master hovers
A shiny razor.
Canto II
In water dipped, and heavy,
I turn into a plant;
Still and cold
Like the moon beside mist
Raising its trunk
To dine on Night.
The stars come weeping,
Wrenching chunks of flesh
With red-light lanes inside.
Logos-ultimate—
Whisperings of a tipsy cloud
On a broken vagina.
With pinion fixture flies Stone—The Great.
Fires spread.
Deer bursts ope’ doe-skin to die.
Ornate passions spread here and nigh.
Canto III
From the cremation-patch
I have brought…
A claw-scratch!
I look outside from my room,
A town too gummy…
Hangs from a pregnant ave’s tummy.
I met the bread and ale
Of the crematorium-caretaker—
Blue eggs, bathing in rain,
We prick them too with needles
Again and again;
We shake calcium and tannin
In out dramatic body-beaker.
Yet that surprising rage braves…
To stay.
If that long-been-pregnant
Spreads her legs, I’d say—
“Innocence is good. Yet grapes
Are sour on the tongue.”
Canto IV
After shock-therapy
I return to my study
And clasp the table.
Prising at my albino skin
I dream of a flying machine—
A cycle—
In my vision of a thousand earthliness,
Genitals of the Sun and Night
Mingle…
Together with the petty young grass.
Insomniac, I…
Swallow medicinal sanity!
Mossy nerves beneath the pond
Call again.
Stories of the married trees
Flay this brain.
Pesitons or Valium Fives
Wash me in.
Canto V
To stifle Seeds
Excited cloudy clusters pray.
When these seeds die in women’s wombs,
Language of insects will stay.
And you won’t get water
In the dusk-red spa.
Dark sleep comes;
With pounds of flesh
Converse owls.
Wedded wives crave to encounter fouls.
They wish to be raped.
Natura Naturata
Evolves in the nursing home!
And water…I crave for
Water!
Rotted, we remain
Bastardized in muddy vein
(Our swampy alma-mater)!
Canto VI
Grandfather dust and vermillion
In an array,
(Though ladies’ minion)
Suddenly one day
Strip the women.
A field where horses pee
In March’s urgency,
A weird neigh again!
How much can I even narrate,
The tale of a tigress sedate,
With a singed tongue?
The head— a hooded snake,
For consecutive sighs’ sake…
Rounds up the shy moon rehung.
You, like a zombie, lay
For the last thousand years.
You may rise if you pay…
Heed to the quarreling birds—
A couple of martins, symbols-soaked.
That cirrus-blue betimes
With signs of marriage…
Between me and you it chimes.
Canto VII
“The belly-button or the umbilical pod
Too can its beauty afford”—
Said the artist and went to pour
Water (to get a slippery floor)
With his blue hands.
Echoes in a game duck—
Wild-horse in radar—
Rain-tart rolls down the cheek.
A thousand glow-worms get stuck
To a woman’s breast
When he with her perspires.
And cherry-wet that narrow path;
And weeping willows
The fallopian tubes, where life bellows.
Too many lives and ample photographs
Too many excuses for picnic-buffs.
Binoculars on snakes’ heads
To watch women bathe
Or perform intercourse in their beds.
There is a line of cots
In our line of thoughts!
Canto VIII
Two school-girls
And an apple of gold—
Compose…
Our classroom fold!
Cloudy mosquito-nets are spread
Inside the skull,
There sleeps the womb-bird.
I teach them compositions.
Swallowing sputum while teaching
I reach bubbles, microbes, or sketch
Some archetypal peacock’s preaching.
Nights roll out from the torch
While a retina-filled ambulance
Hits the road! By the porch
Or scaffolded stairs’ incandescence…
The golden apple rises up intact.
Rape transforms…
Into artifact!
I dig up the earth
To plant…
A vagina aslant,
While I to myself hum
Songs of this red drum. Calcutta, 28.01.07 — 09.02.07
[Inspired by Sri Jawahar Sen Mazumdar’s Bengali poem ‘Brishti O Aaguneyr Music-room]
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