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Rites Ghosh Poems
Verbs And Nouns Of Love
Keep these verbs you may require them to bend a steel of wrath- sharp weapons from behind
Rain And The Rhyme Of My Mind
Let rain bring back the rhyme from beyond mythical hills: dry stony earth, this page, cracks of my mind full-
Rain, Keep Me Lonely
Loneliness, you come to me in my morning varandah and sipping tea when after crushing summer comes first the brave busy shower.
My Father Is Something More
I am just forty when my father at seventy-three's duskglow runs with
A Journey Remembered
Milestones of a forlorn road lie wayside under mists and partial shadows behind wintercanvas -
I Know What It Means To Wait
I would not be tired waiting upon thy gate I would not be tired holding these lilies, until
Desires, Never Complete
Desires, now beautiful, sharp and bold turns or distorts
Kiss Me Different
Kiss me so my lips are left a sqeezed raisin kiss me out and suck juices and hue poured therein.
The Case Of A Concealed Letter
My soul now lies in brown hours like the unravished letter trapped inside a brown envelop.
Tamed my eyes i've tamed my waters gargling water, bursting bubbles that snipped my rest,
Yesterday I told I love you. Previous day I told I love you.
Monsoon clouds are now rising vision. its fantastic is piled up in disharmony, the far-off towers and porches
Regenarate My pen
Dear words, once my playmate too lovely and bold, now drifted so far and slips
Between Walls: A Story
Some good cracks tired walls, now you're flogged black and blue-
Comments about Rites Ghosh
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
Verbs And Nouns Of Love
Keep these verbs
you may require them
to bend a steel of wrath-
sharp weapons from behind
grow flashy: into wounds
they strike certainty of destruction.
Be sure, that I may not come-
not even my surreal shadows
from this portion
of your soft yellow light.
These nouns that once
like a complacent boatman
to steer our way of love-
floated us down in the divine stream-
washed our nights and days,
our burning suns and cloyed moons-
with surfs and salts of life,
see whirl of doom.
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