Bijay Kant Dubey Life Poems

Lonely man,
Lonely world,
And lonely the ways of life.
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It is good to sacrifice one’s life for the motherland
But think it,
Who will look after your family
When you will be no more?
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I shall write a paper on you and you will on me,
And as thus shall we keep doing
Self-praise and mutual admiration,
The small men as small poets-cum-editors
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“My love, how are you, how are you?
Are you fine?
Are you happy, my love? ”,
Said she slowly in a voice of her own.
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How lonely am I on the path of life,
How lonely!
All alone came I here
And shall I,
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It is indeed a had life, a tougher one to dispense with,
Dispose off and to deal out,
To clean the latrine tanks,
Holed in and deep,
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The history of earth, the existence of life on it, the circumstances of it,
The world spread over, I know them not,
What it is life, how the things of it, I know them not,
How earth has come up, what had it been before
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At the fair met I,
But could not ask her name.

Do the people meet and depart from
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You are my life, Radha,
You are my life,
No life without you,
Without you, Radha
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Shashi Tharror, your novels not,
But your past records,
The trails of your life
Leave us not,
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In the countryside or the township, there is none to wish you,
Happy new year,
Or to give a bouquet of flowers
Or the beloved to wait for earnestly
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Poetry as the mud houses thatched with straw,
Roofed with the bamboos,
I can see them making,
Striking the idea, getting at,
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Try to search it, try to find it
That she is also a mother,
Mom, mum, mummy
Around her neck
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Mr.Dubey, what are you doing here on the platform?
Sir, when I came for the first time, I just alighted on this platform
And when I shall have to take the return journey train,
I shall have to come to this platform,
...

The mimic man as a mimic
Mimicking modern man and manners;
The poet learning the art of humour from jokers
As poetry is jokes, the jokes of life
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Mother a skeleton
With Malnutrition as poor child
Sucking the breast of Poverty.
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I saw the American girls
And my heart went away with them
To America
Following them
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How alone am I,
How alone had I been!
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Life is a play
And I am a theatre artiste,
You a theatre artist.
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How helpless appears it to be life
In jams,
Traffic jams,
Gasping for air,
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My daughter only daughter,
Simple and lovely,
Moving alone
On the path of life and the world,
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Born at a village in Deoghar
Just by the banks of the river Ajay,
But reared and grew up at Dumka,
A boy played I into the bushes,
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The Life Divine by Sri Aurobindo is such a text and document
Which trespasses many a trajectory and domain
Of human thought and its evolution,
The mind rising in unison with the Force,
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A supreme work of a supreme mind,
The Life Divine by Sri Auroibindo,
A philosophical text and document;
A prose treatise
...

There is nothing in human life
Though we keep denying the fact,
Refusing to accept it
There is nothing in human life.
...

They say it,
You are for a few days,
Let me see in full
Before you go away.
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Mao Zedong (1893-1976) ,
The supreme leader,
They transcribe you
As Mao Tse-tung too
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A drunkard's wife,
The pains of her life and living,
None but a drunkard only knows it,
Can feel it about
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Maharshi Aurobindo's
The Life Divine,
A supreme work of spiritual progression,
The evolutionary process
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You are my life, Radha,
You are my heart,
You my soul,
Your flute
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O drinker, I know it that you take not water,
Cold drink, but hot drink!
A daru-master taking daru to full are you,
Sir!
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God, save me, save from my Bengali wife,
So self-centred, so selfish,
So narrow and parochial,
So anti-Hindi and linguistical,
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And for truth, for the sake of truth,
This much too he can do,
A king never born,
Never will be born again
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Man a sadhaka
And this life of his a sadhna,
Tempering in the furnace of sadhna.
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Apart from what do his detractors say about him,
Whatever be the mistake committed unknowingly,
Modi is not what they say about him,
A thinker and a visionary,
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Life is a circus
Where the two artistes meet they
While enacting the drama of life,
Playing very dangerous roles
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Will life cease to exist here,
Are our days on earth coming to a close,
Wild, tameless and uncontrollable Nature will remain the same
Which Man understands ot not
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Is this life of coming close and nearer to
And getting separated?
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Burquawalli, what are you writing, what are you?
“I am writing, writing my-story,
I means the story of my life,
Which you do not know.”
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A beautiful life you are destroying it
In warfare and militancy,
Arms and ammunition,
Mortar fires, rockets and shells,
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The world is maya, moha
And it is difficult to cut the bonds of illusion,
The cobwebs of maya,
This house, family, life and world,
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In the midst of traffic signals glowing red, yellow and green,
The jams coming to a standstill,
People stopped on,
Vehicles standing bumper to bumper.
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I was born at Lohardih, Post Sarwan, Sub-division Baidyanath Deoghar
Of Dumka Distt. under Bihar on 11.10.1965
But as the father had been posted at Dumka
So we used to be 70 kms. away from the village
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O charmer, where do you lie playing the wooden been music,
Playing so haunting music
And the cobras dancing to the tume of,
Swaying,
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Today I am with you,
Tomorrow may not not be with
As who has seen the coming tomorrow?
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