murari sinha

Rookie - 41 Points (01-01-1958 / vill & po- charigram dist - bankura, west bengal, india)

Earthy Habitat - Poem by murari sinha

i may call it a leaflet
i may call it a handbill

but don’t you notice
a large number of gossips
is natant in the air

do you admit that the fuming heart
that’s glorifying the plate
should be made a must-read
for any seed-bed

the sun tells that to keep-fit
the health of the clouds
the instigation of the perfumed-soap
is required

with that pituitary
some neighing of horses
that is fastened tightly with cork

now see
if you can offer pregnancy
even to the barbie doll

by the by
it should be informed here
if the question of roaming in the woods
is raised

the highly-educated bathroom
feels very helpless

and taking repeated somersaults
in the sunshine
in the rains

the folding umbrella
also have got very much out-of-temper

in the light of the hassac-lantern
the screaming becomes thoroughly interesting

in the about-to-vanish forest-land
the nocturnal shopping hangs vertically

can you be able to get searched
some white-holes under the unfathomable water

then the visiting river should not take tablets
to manage it blood-pressure

now from the window of the town
look at the running away of the
tyre-less motor-cars

and their changing of colours
every now and then

as if after a successful operation
the new ant-hills
are singing and dancing very much

within so much noise
some spoons remain quite indifferent

it is heard that a lawsuit challenging the legal-status
of their relation with the prickle is being proceeded
in an open court

even standing before the court’s dock
no green mango has told the truth

so to do a usg report of the pendulum
that remains static under the dream
has become very much necessary

i pick up flowers from the pages of the calendar
and scatter them on the picture-frame
of my dwelling place

sometimes the spring comes
sometimes the buddhist monastery

along the pitch road of the city
thousand counts of uproars

the mess-building that is situated
on the top of the coconut-tree
has also joined the march-past

and who miss the last train
i offer them glasses of tea
as an anti-war campaigning

the plastic-made afternoons
hoist the flag of nail-polish

as there is no water-bottle
around your neck

the assembly of choosing
one’s bridegroom oneself
has rejected you

some light of the former birth
glitters on the hand-fan
made up of palm-leaves

do the child boats of the pigeon-pea flower
go to them to learn the fountain

all over the room
the cobweb of fundamentalist spiders

the toy-train breaks the water colour
to run to the oil-colour

and on both sides of its travelling
there are so many advertisements
of tooth-paste

the krishnachura and the champa

both of them
have the only-one unsheathed afternoon

both of them
have the same-one broken harmonium

how long more the eyes of terracotta
would roam in the sun

the uneven fate-line
is written on the green slate

the sound of the vocal chord is also eloquent
as if it were some bare trees of wood-apple

around the swimming
there are some scattered scrapes of slippers

the colour of whose straps
is blue

and some tales of the faded sky

i return home with the night of

i return with those waves of the
mid-night that have no translation

i lay them in order

for the ripple nearest to the heart
how much cherry-blossoms do you have

when you do swim
to full wings and feathers
the doors and windows of the black timber
do sit

keeping their eyes closed

the metallic rays of light
have to go back
into the blood-circulation of the blue mountain

what do you pray then from the

is it the voice of the bees

The fairies of chaitra
lie on the un–wrinkled bed
with their backside up

in the hearsay of the air
once the woods of tamarisks
once the hill of paraffin

it appears there is no interruption
to this circus

the toy-telephones
hang from the cloud to cloud

from that carnival
take birth many kanthali-champa

the surgeon comes calmly
to the secret of darning

all localities are totally maddened
by the flow tide of the exudation

observing all those happenings
the half-broken wave
does awake on the sofa-set

there are so many pieces of torn paper
into the stone-chips of the broken road

they are of summer
they are of late autumn

beside is the ice-mill
the glow-sign board
attached tightly

the indelible ink
catches the finger of the lemon-grass

the fish-market is also alive and glad

the young minister of state
sends his best wishes
to the handloom-girls

in between
some horn-blowing of the

the labour-strike trembles

the water of dhaleswari-river
has been filled
with the sound of subsistence

the last tram passes away

the boy
who is the owner of every parted-kite
sits lonely on the empty bench of the park

and makes it enlightened

in one pocket
he has few pieces of dry breads

in another
the air to play on bamboo-flute

the night is filled with

all the shout within the dialogues
gradually becomes weak
and vanishes

there is no tangle in the

the bier of the hindu-satkar-samiti
runs away
causing a quake in the locality

some needles
small medium and big
are doing their morning-walk

on the thread-line
that is the secret of a phoenix

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Poem Submitted: Friday, April 23, 2010

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