I had thought of writing of all that is bad.
A blackness gushing out from streams of ink.
I had thought of opening my tired eyes, and perceive
a famished myopic twilight.
I had thought of floating away in the streams, too.
Of losing my mind, body, heart. And ruptured,
I had thought of falling in love with the silent
tortures of pains that have ceased to hurt;
love: embodiment of formless riots
A clan of tired poets had taught me
to embrace the shameful,
to empathize in unfeeling sepulchrals,
to forget the slight smiles of simple joys.
And I, in my senseless youth had drowned
in the deafening applause of loveless hands.
And I, in frenzy, had nailed masks
on the wrinkles on my cheek.
Behind that mask and under that roar
had I imprisoned my human?
Had I known of another black, craving for me?
Searching for my childish gurgles?
Lusting to wash all my colours
with its lull of unseemly permanence?
I await the call of ancient bards
in eager dewdrop suspensions.
I await their nudge,
I await my love-weak poet to write
a few lines —
happy in their meaninglessness.
I await a splash of forbidden colours
filled with the radiance of infant rhythms!
© 2007 Ritwik Banerjee
Ritwik Banerjee is licensed under a
Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 License.