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| Boudhayan Mukherjee |
SUNDAY
Sunday morning is snoring
In the bedroom dark and dense
Draped in Venetian blinds
A fragrance enters the room stealthily
Its like a woman with soft desires.
The drowsiness is god-sent gift
But the smell becomes an arrow
Of an unnamed perfume my lungs never took.
Breakfast on a tray of dreams
The coding effects of silence is blissful
I try to curl up in my mother's womb
She's now far away from me
Who is now in my room, whose fragrance?
***
WAITING
Red is like blood in an oasis
big men laughing hilariously
A toy -train travels loosely through
your hair-clips and withers away
No way to dream about good things
except an opium-made poem 'Kubla Khan'.
The mind stressed, how to free it
by a moving yet slow slumber
Losing memories of a week gone hay-wire.
When I talk with words laughing
Silently entering my bedsheets, then love-heart
How long can I wait for you to come?
***
TO MAKE YOU CRY
I've no reason to be misunderstood
I've thrown away my love of boy-hood.
And the defeat was mine
The eloquence of silence
Rests on your marmalade eyes
Peaceful if its not, then my heart will bleed
I'll come and sit in your room
Wearing a white kurta handloom
Drenched with blood to make you cry
So that you forgive me and make a fresh try.
***
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