A Crazy Travelogue Of An Ongoing Travel.... Poem by PARTHA SARATHI PAUL

A Crazy Travelogue Of An Ongoing Travel....

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Several typhoons and tsunamis turn the woody pages of my unwritten autobiography topsy-turvy. Perched on the feeble bough of wisdom tree this wild bird stares into the empty space. This blunt chisel strikes love marks into Muse embodied bark. Martial Art and Occult Science are now almost drowned in very personal oblivion. This gardener of saplings sprinkles ritual rains on a holy mission.
Chew and swallow many divine bugs. Some are sour some are bitter and some are bloody pungent. Muse came in a dream before my birth but for years we were estranged in this stupid earth. She woke me up and reminded to wield the quill that was idly asleep in my unknown slumber. At one amorous moment we together brought forth the maiden poem and they now breed at the pace of mosquitoes so many butterfly wings. The awakened spirits may turn a dead volcano once the madding tinkles of the dancing figure cease to exist.

50 Bengali butterflies briskly fluttered into a hard cover sanctuary dearly christened Kabita Pagal Katha and 115 sea waves rushed ashore to Oyster. Between these two steps lies the extinguished pyre of the best friend. Third one and many others now look for clever connoisseurs. The tryst of trust and doubt stretches hands out to an alien vine.
As a henpecked lover I carry out her order. Again she smiles on my bold efforts. Anything that stirs all the bale of nerves brings out venting verses. Some poems are slushy pulp of my bloody bludgeoned skull. One queer hammer often hits hard to null.

Glutton for large vocabulary is sad for the weak liver. Now possessed by sleek brevity the insane brain uses the incisor for obscure concision. The matter is not yet a concession. Like a weird conjuror the thrilled mind juggles sharp words. Like a freak of beautiful diction….
Many verses come out when a severe earthquake wrecks all the interior regions in the trembling cranium. Kind verses piece together all the torn up thread like nerves. The diver- zeal often swims in a deep well just for a stupid thrill. A new poem is a new birth to a poet.
Play hide and seek with great Blake’s symbols; drown in the calm sea of Eliot’s obscurity; chill with the Browning poetry art films; drink gallon of Keats` pathos and flirt with Byron`s love.

The pupils of my pupils are now empty oceans. Once they are blessed with high waves and all choppy ripples they too will make so many wonders. A poet`s eyes look for many poets.

Nothing can stop a will that lives on a mighty thrill. Poets are made in the farthest land. Passport and visa are buried in the Arabian sand. Toil and sweats alone are blunt tools in carving sublime poetry in the cosmos-bosom. All my poet friends know that poets are born smeared with stardust.

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