Nine of swords

The heady bloom of tuberose
In the garden climb
Into my nostrils and pierce
My heart with longing,
It blooms too, a blood lotus
Of pain in the pool of desire,
The water is murky and the root
Goes down to eternity.

Three of swords

The sword will sever
The heart at last,
From its bashful naiveté.
And Death shall ride
The pale horse, unkind,
Ending all that will not mend.
After the tower is burnt
Down to the ground,
Hope will again sing.
The moon will bless
The needed retreat,
The Earth will lull to sleep.

Regret

Living without you,
Frozen in a gilded frame,
Leaving you behind,
Heaped in a leafy grave.

Sweet April rain 
Will spray countless sweets
Over your headstone,
And earth will bleach your bones.

Tears which were shed are gone,
The salt of memory though,
Keeps the wounds afresh,
Lying in watch for some callousness.

Going away

The rays of the sun,
the beams of the moon,
the breeze of the morn,
the shade of the noon,
bring an echo of a sigh
from celeste skies.

The harvest leaves cling
Like swallows to spring,
The mellowed red apples,
the last green brambles,
entwine and kiss for keeps
even in the mouldering heap.

The fond rustle of memory
at the door is all there is,
the sweet joys of youth and love
fast fading like a flower.
Our life a dream,  in dreams
is the door we fain ope or close.

The Carousing Cat

Fat, jolly cat, dreamt of cream,

Licking his whiskers clean,

So proper and prim,

They called him Jim,

He ate butter with a spoon !

He danced all noon,

And at night by moon,

And tickled the mice,

With ribbons of rice,

Until they crooned.

If you asked his name

He would scratch you lame,

And stick to strange ways

Of waltzing with jays,

Or teaching the fish to swoon!

পাওয়া

সহস্র শব্দের মাঝে তোমায় একলা পাব ভাবি

খরস্রোতা নদীর বুকে গাঁথা মসৃণ পাথরের মত ,

 তোমায় ছুঁয়ে থাকবে আমার আলগা চুলের শ্যাওলা –

সমুদ্রের তলায় বন্ধ রামধনু ঝিনুক

যেমন আগলে রাখে নিছক বালুকণা ।

চিত্রিত কার্পেট মুক্ত অলিভ রঙা 

মিশরের রাণীর কাছে সিজার যেমন

পরাজিত , তেমন একা কি পাব তোমায়

কোনো দিন, প্রকৃতিরও অলক্ষ্যে ?

Wishfulness

Oh, ‘Give me the sun’, ‘the sun’,
or a “life of sensations”,
a maenad's mirth,
the “elfin grot”,
and see my yearning
turn to naught.
Else see me wither,
and “peak and pine”
cursed by the weird sisters’ kind,
upon the heather
that blew asunder ,
the poor life of Eustace Vye.

Alma

The fiend is at my throat mother,

I keep lying through my teeth,

When will the angels gather,

And ease the black beast’s grip?

My soul,  you say, is precious,

Precious than all treasure.

It doesn’t feed my belly nor

Shield me from the weather,

But  kings  stroke with eager hands,

The thieving black beast’s hair,

Their bellies full, their coffers  gilt,

With  treasures  tore from  earth’s bier.

The talk of eternity and grace

Is  all  too fine for a  Christian scholar,

Who’s never heard his belly rumble,

Or slept in stables  or  plain heather.

Ophelia

Waves have washed the blue from your eyes,

painting your lips with a violet hue,

your raven hair, cool and finer

than even branched velvet, floats freely

as daisies and long purples bloom

beside the stream whom all shall come to mourn

like Adonis, gone in his prime,

struck the Syrian damsels in annual hum

of grief and undoing of young love.

Despair

I gave up hope long ago,

only she did not leave me,

I buried my heart in a grave

and let it there to rot,

it came back to haunt me yet.

I left memory locked in a chest

it escaped still and held me in thrall

instead. I fled from myself

and was caught unaware

by the shards of mirror I had flung away.

I hid away from time

but he fell me like all else.

I drowned my sorrows deep in the seafloor,

the rain brought them all back,

revived by the breeze of regret.

Fated

You can't deal with death,
whichever side the dice may roll,
you'd be the losing hand,
no rabbit's foot or blowing breath
could recover the impossible stake,
her stroke, too fine for eyes will sweep all wins.

Death in life

I wrote to death with a passionate cool ,
Thinking she was kind and true,
That she'll go easy on the dying part,
Now being the biggest fool,
I bragged acquaintance and gift,
A scar,  a few traumatic dreams -
Ignoramus, not knowing quite,
It seldom is what seems right.
The last is never too lightly past,
A path of jagged stones, and stormy sky,
A crumbling bridge grown with heather high,
Thistle and moss and death of hope,
Where the branched shadow of the Yew,  spreads calmness like a woven pall, beaded with tears,
On the suffering,  supplicant eyes, now grown mute,
That will not trace the familiar landscape no more,
But Requiscat in pace et in amore.

Acceptance

Almost too hard to attain, a rocky desert,
Where even the hammer of pain slows down,
To a faint throbbing measure;
Your heart,  struggling against the ceaseless currents,
Suddenly finds itself becoming a sturdy pebble.
Atoms neatly bound in peace,
Calmly bear the corrosive waves,
Sans moss, sans engraved lines,
Reflecting on wisdom and grace, 
Ascetic, calm and true.

My love

I love you more than all your kisses,
I love you more than time,
I love to love you above all,
I need no reason or rhyme.

I love you most my sweet sweet cherry,
I can't ever bid you goodbye,
Though the bough breaks and hopes end,
To leave you is to die.

Isis

The most beautiful woman
must be death, for life
is in love with her wantonness,
like no other.
She can make him cry
with a slight embrace
and then turn all smiles
like a child again. Such grace...
My, she's the saint and
the sinner,
the light after life,
the dark before.
A painful pleasure,
like the primal oxymoron
of twilight- of finally passing the day
and easing into night.