Subrata Ray Poems

The Tajmahal's Mystic Live

Rosy busy eyes from marble stones,
Shoot forth with bouncy and cry and roam.
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The Irony Of Intellect.

Nature's minion of the self-dress,
So does the intellect impress,
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In a midnight in the forest,
With my adolescent sun,
I awake, behold me around,
The melancholy faced orgasm,
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The Lotus Red.

The lotus red,
In conscience's bed,
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Bengali Version

Prama, -Dedicated To That One Who Is The Poem Itself.
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To My Dearest Husband.

Oh! the light in my Africa,
Oh! The Columbus in my America,
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The live-treasure of romantic feast,
The enchanting bath of the black snake ,
The submerged volcano of the crude psychic,
Hi -mystic catcher, -hi beloved, hi wife.
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The Loss Of Humanity.

Why so many words?
Why not stoic are the bards?
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There was a nun,
Who had no choice but to escape,
Marriage visited her in several rapes.
Heard not I, but they say, who were gays.
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The cloud-covered images hang,
Imaginations tinge and fade and tinge,
And relate to matter in thousands rings.
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