murari sinha

murari sinha Poems

1 the goose is putting its signature
on the plume detaching from its tail

the queue is overflowed with crowd

making my friendship with the water-pigeon does not mean
that i’ve acknowledged all devotion of the land-lotuses to river
without putting any note of dissent

your body
that’s fond of tv-soap

with its un-worldly moonlight and worldly tricks and posterings

far from the centre-stage
production is going on
of many street-dramas
on handling the characters in them

the sleep is sleepless

in this hot-sea-shore
that’s my only guardian

playing on the raw-coal
the under-clothes of the airhostesses
continue to sing a song

all on a sudden
one day again
i face the isabgool

for her
who looks most beautiful in red orna
i’m carrying the best wishes of those lilies
blooming on the iron-grill

owing to the pollen-grains
i can’t become a good goal-keeper

Who’s won the muddy-battle
Was yesterday’s politics
My addiction is, actually, to cater
The pouch of love

before the dense shower of rain
i’ve placed by notebook for taking autograph

before the whole-night music-show

the biography of the pond-heron will be scripted
even-then the productivity of the merry-go-round
wouldn't be uttered for a moment
no sir, such has never been expected

is the tendency of the reddish sunshine
to become drenched some more

let us hear

if the sinking-of-boat …ice-cream by name
be deducted from the swept-off-in-flood … by name roll no 31
then would the wings of the comics
cease to exist

I offer so much love to the orioles

after then
some defeats on the upper-level of the pea-leaves

just in the middle of the bad luck
I cultivate
some more boutique print

when this endless anchal of dhanekhali sari
continues to make dip-swimming
in the bottomless water of the paddy

to print herself the headache of the magnolia
sometimes spreads up to the legs of the ripe mangos

in the water that creeps up to the horizon

you’re not adams apple

the fruits from tree of the knowledge
of good and evil

on the other-side of a grave wall
there may rightly be a water-vessel
that is chicken-hearted by birth

murari sinha Biography

associated with KOBITA PAKSHIK a fortnight magazine of Bengali poetry published regularly from KOLKATA, INDIA for the last eighteen years. mainly writes in bengali and a prominent exponent of contemporary bengali poetry, now his english verses are placed here for the readers world-wide. web -http: // - - - http: // - http: //

The Best Poem Of murari sinha

Moments For Blooming

1 the goose is putting its signature
on the plume detaching from its tail

the queue is overflowed with crowd

groping in the memory of the gathering people
so many safety pins and cello-tapes
are found

on the shoulders of some wayfarers
there is the stammering cold

2. the body-language of the moon
is being so changed
the enthusiastic may test

blood comes down
when the tap is on

and sweat

birds from siberia
are flying in now through the disc antenna

the dravidian air is ever changing

it is hard to get ruined now
following all the grammar

3. the sole hunger of the winter
is being noted down in the note book
covered with human-skin

the clouds of the summer and the rainy season
are salivating

the garrulous spiders are detaching the shells
of the deceased deer and putting the gardens in the iron-chest

throwing dry leaves to shoo away the coke
oh, the sleeveless palms
are all the new girl-friends ok

4. putting on the rain-coat to save the skin
or it’s an armour
is your body safe
fireworks are twinkling
the fire-brigade has gone to a joyful journey with the clouds
admit the charisma of the bathroom
you the adult buffalo
don’t forget to tell
the experienced cormorants have flown in from the marshland

5. diving in search of kisses
i saw all are stings
even the wicker tray with the articles of ceremonial reception
can’t escape bite
would you be clean
oh engrossed abir
so many flakes of snow on the branches of the guava tree
the festival is in your teeth also
soothe your blood
don’t submerge the river into the waves
and there is the sky
beg a rail

6 i pierced the clouds with my fore-finger
and the blood-stain touches my body
the wind which makes the doors and windows
open to public view I can’t stare at its eyes
i push the storm towards the yellow-leaves

7. sometimes the river calls
as if she will fly like the winged horse
if she be let loosed
where does she keep the sadness of her placenta
there is no flower-vase
the glass is good enough
though the lover glass has broken with the first kiss
the grass with aromatic roots trembles in the breeze from the
candid wings
the orna flies tearing the caterpillar
would you let your salted water be wasted

8. beside the comb there is hair
is it soft green or the alkaline
how much relevant is that information
rowing through which water the endemic comes
the afternoon-cloud giggled, took permission and went home
bringing an end to today’s game
the unwashed plates after eating are placed on the basin
the night-cigarette goes burning in the mouth of air
on the coughs and expectoration floats the lost mast

9. the sands are shy to the extreme
they don’t have looted anything
the bricks have much intimacy with the wild creepers
all the komonduls and lances turned backward
now you may easily spread your wet cloth in the air
one roof would have dialogues with another in the lost afternoon
one window would have exchange of sights with the another

10. there is the laugh
100% natural
beauty is written on the eyelids
that is also a game
new cloths at the time of every puja
that is also an addiction
a hidden bunglow
under the tongue
no information of death

murari sinha

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Fish-Irrigated ০ Murari Sinha The signature of the afternoon gradually fades away Bearing the foot-prints offered by a lucky pot The new born happiness hangs around the edge of lips Busy eating hot omelet I'm still dwelling in my home-stead As if tied by shackles made of water Attached with me is a lot of my childhood a lot of swimming lessons Air painted by fish-fry I admit is earthen and sweet Soaked up by the evening is my tiredness hidden beneath my cloak My trigonometric figure daubs itself with the dripping womb from a moon June gloom Presents my ear The beats of Bangla-Dhak Even that has so many transformations sometimes to the invocation of the deity sometimes to the sacrifice of a he-goat sometimes to the immersion of idol Filled only with the cyclone of so many easily digestives is this fish-irrigated lifestyle

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