Coffee

I am a tea person,

Green, bitter tea with lemon.

It’s my thing. 

In a light weight porcelain cup and saucer,

The perfect tea tastes more perfect.

Tea is about perfection.

But coffee is different.

Coffee is like love, 

Bulky big mugs, clutching with both the hands

Making us jittery, addicted.

Calming us before our sleep,

In between works, anxiety and sex.

Sometimes, someplace even paint a heart on top of it.

Love.

Coffee is something I cannot digest.

Homesick


​I don’t remember where the cupboard was.

Or the old black and white television set.

Neither the cloth rack, or the kitchen. 

I don’t remember what did we put there,

In the wall rack, or where did we put the calendar.

Or my mum’s thakur er singhashon.

I remember the window back there, 

There was this old  lady, 

Who used to smell my mum’s fish curry

And cherish her old life.

Old widows back then, didn’t eat nonveg.

I don’t remember her face.
I remember where the bed was,

And the rabbit who died,

And first time I had to take rabies vaccines.

And the cat, and the 2nd time.
I remember those two wooden chairs

Where I stood injured looking out at the window

And the tiny spider, was climbing my leg.

The red tricycle I used to ride in the front yard,

It’s a concrete floor now.
But the red veranda was there,

And the old windows.

Where I first learned, that I grew up.
One day I was so small,

 I could walk beneath the wooden windows.

And one day, 20 years ago, I grew​ up.

Windows

Windows are beautiful. 

So many love in that small rectangular jail, 

Keeping you inside, protected from outer world,

World full of love.

Two brothers were walking down the street,

The big brother, holding an umbrella over little one’s head.

And Fanning with a hand fan constantly.

And I am here with the memory of my brother and the window,

That day when he was lost, 

and we searched everywhere screaming his name.

For hours.

And returned home with no hope, 

And found him inside my box window, somehow trapped. 

I think he is still here, trapped in my window.

Enslaving me with all those siblings passing by

And their love. 

We are trapped in each other. In this window.

The new gods

We don’t have friends here.

This is an exam, a selection process.

And according to the syllabus, 

According to the notes you were supposed to read,

Remember and write;

You get selected.

There are many subjects, 

Meme, poetry, activism, Photography, comedy

Whichever you master most, 

you get selected in that field.

Then you fight. 

Sometimes with the flow, 

Sometimes against the flow.

War of words, war of politics, 

War of quick fame and solution 

War of love and sex and literature.

And your thoughts become digits, 

You get digitally accepted, 

Or get digitally rejected.

And we keep trying hard 

To curve our emotions with millions of pixel dots.

We don’t have friends here.

What we have, pictures, of places,

So we don’t go out, to look at the real places​,

And keep producing our thoughts.

Keep uniting our brains, 

Sorting out the parasites who thinks differently.

They will die anyway,

Alone, rotting somewhere.

Who did ever care?

We don’t have friends here. 

We are just providing our digital brains,

Uniting us, 

In a process of making an ultimate one. 

The new gods

We don’t have friends here.

This is an exam, a selection process.

And according to the syllabus, 

According to the notes you were supposed to read,

Remember and write;

You get selected.

There are many subjects, 

Meme, poetry, activism, Photography, comedy

Whichever you master most, 

you get selected in that field.

Then you fight. 

Sometimes with the flow, 

Sometimes against the flow.

War of words, war of politics, 

War of quick fame and solution 

War of love and sex and literature.

And your thoughts become digits, 

You get digitally accepted, 

Or get digitally rejected.

And we keep trying hard 

To curve our emotions with millions of pixel dots.

We don’t have friends here.

What we have, pictures, of places,

So we don’t go out, to look at the real places​,

And keep producing our thoughts.

Keep uniting our brains, 

Sorting out the parasites who thinks differently.

They will die anyway,

Alone, rotting somewhere.

Who did ever care?

We don’t have friends here. 

We are just providing our digital brains,

Uniting us, 

In a process of making an ultimate one. 

Creative blockage

I write too much,

In my Facebook profile, I keep posting

Constantly. 

About many things, love, hate, hypocrisy

Death, happiness, friends.

Someone said I am frustrated, 

I need to deal with it out of social media

And fix meself.

Someone said I should stop writing,

And rather use that time and energy to

Make stuff, like what I do professionally,

I make jewelries.
Art, 

Is a confusing state I guess,

I Love Neil Gaiman,

He said the only thing exclusive we have,

Is our mind, our thoughts.

And we should write about it, paint and draw, or sculpt and design about it.

But we are only one of it.

Either a poet, or a designer, or a painter, singer.

The art itself is rigid too

If a singer stops singing, an artist dies

If a designer stops producing, or a photographer stops clicking, we are no longer producing art.

We are no longer free from the cage of art, 

No one wants to know the other side of our minds,

Where sometimes we cannot produce those commercial stuff we do, 

But our minds never stop thinking,

And words come instead of products.

But words are just frustration I guess

Lose of energy, lack of creativity

Our minds are our own to bear. 

The art of categorization

The art of categorization is beautiful,

Yet deadly.

In my place you will find a holy basil tree

In my room, a shelf full of bengali books

You will find my mum cooking for you,

And looking at you whilst you are eating,

Like you are an extra terrestrial.

In myself,

You will find a tanned exotic beauty.

I have seen in that hippie shop,

The exotic Indian essence

And how you drool over it.

And that’s where I categorize you

There isn’t any difference,

I find you exotic too.

They way you braid your hair,

Or grow your ginger beard

Or the way you try to gobble our culture.

Everything is so exotic, 

My mum will be very happy,

When they will see you guys wearing Sarees

Or kurta pajamas. We are no different.

We love each other very much

The different kind of exotic beauties

We will never know that in my house 

The most precious thing is the memory of my brother,

And in your life you mostly see things 

Which are polished and decorated 

In the name of culture

For the love of a foreigner

Poppies

Would you like to make me sad?

I will be sad if you want me to,

I was sad before, watching the starry night,

And the vase with red poppies.

Reading Sandman, and the mushroom hunters.

Listening to the bigger on the inside.

That sadness wasn’t the sadness we feel

Of broken heart, of failure or death.

That’s a sadness of creation, of love.

Art. 

Would like to make me sad?

I will be sad if you can make me to.

Power of power Glasses

I was always fascinated about people with glasses

I mean not like me glasses, wearing it just to protect my eyes from allergic reactions, no.

Like people who needs glasses to see clearly.

My mum has it, my dad, Uncle, my best friends, my childhood friends, my Ex boyfriend, my teachers, my enemies.

I asked them, what do they see without the glasses, they said they can’t see properly without it. Always the same answer.

No one answered me what do they see without it. I am not interested in knowing what do they not see. But well I guess I am bit demanding and people don’t think like my way.

But I really would like to know what do they see, is it like some old photographs? Not so clear? Or is it like when we squint our eyes and it seems like right and left Sides are mixing up together? Or what do they see when they look at me? Does my face look like just a  blurry round thing, or anything else or maybe i want different answers from different people.

Who knows I am demanding anyway.