The keen longing for a paradise,
maybe, a dream or a pet always,
but the sky alone is incapable and helpless
to germinate even a tiny flower plant.
A paradise—a luminous and tumultuous garden,
full of blissful flowers and feathery singers
exhibiting the colours and beauties of fresh life
and singing the triumph of life as the best.
Paradise—assumed already as a belonging
of life-less heaven—a world of fantasy
but well appreciated and valued
only in the real world of blood and sweat,
well co-operated by open hands and hearts,
germinated nowhere other than the land—
nurtured, enjoyed and glorified by the mortals
adding the sky to the land—fantasy to the reality
for a spontaneous intercourse—quite significant
for blooming a life in the paradise
and a sweet smile on the thirsty lips
as a consolation—bestowed upon by mother-nature
against the pains and strains of tough reality.
OILING THE STARS
Maybe, the raising head
touches the moon or Mars
and the race between the man and the God
reaches its competitive climax
in extending or sustaining their own greatness,
yet, something like an extempore speech
or the building of a sweet home
needs oiling the stars to be favorable
in converting the heterogeneous
into the homogeneous,
reshaping the implicit into the explicit
and enlarging dictatorship into democracy
in the hunting of honey for all.
Otherwise, a glass of hemlock is ever-ready
to give the last shelter
to the unfortunate speaker or builder.
WHENEVER YOU EMBRACE AND KISS ME
Whenever you embrace me
my angel in my soul
finds his greatness brimful
to make my paradise fertile
till the blooming of the last blossom,
and enchants you too to join on the floor
where I used to dance with my God.
Whenever you kiss me
my demon in my heart
feels the taste of your blood,
makes me hungry to consume you
till the end of my last supper
and mesmerizes you too to be happy
with the taste of my flesh and blood.
THE RETURNED HAND OF MY EX-GIRLFRIEND
"We should let bygones be bygones,"
the returned hand of my ex-girlfriend
advises me, keeping itself on my shoulder,
wipes out the tears of my eyes,
cuts the grass growing under my feet
and at last pushes me
to the cause of my grief
to look it bravely in the face.
Maybe, the cause is already forgiven
and my face is turned to other mirrors
but the pinching is still active
in digging my heart and soul
in each and every moment of my lonely evening.
"We ought not eat the humble pie,"
the kind hand advises me once again,
embracing me and my heart,
squeezing them to shed all the pains down
and whispers in my ears,
"You ate your cake and have it now too."
THE CAT ON YOUR LAP
I am ever-cautious of the cat on your lap
along with its hidden claws
waiting for directing the dual
between your ‘yes’ and my ‘no’ and vice-versa,
but my compromised heart never calls for a dual—
rather well ascertained it is
with the regular scanning of my heart and brain
to maintain an eclectic equation
that embellishes my eyes
with a sophisticated vision of verified tomorrow.
Maybe, my office schedule tightens its grip
or my dog at my feet barks at your cat.
Our evening tea-hour, nevertheless, is well trained
to extend itself to a decade or more
your cat and my dog interchange their masters
and my eyes are fearless to kiss
your awesome fingers,
embellished with sharp and polished nails.
Today we are pleased to welcome Pijush Kanti Deb to the Kitchen, all the way from India! About himself, he writes: I am Pijush Kanti Deb and a new Indian poet with more than 180 published poems and haiku in more than 50 national and international poetry magazines and journals in print and online, like Down in the Dirt, Tajmahal Review, Pennine Ink, Hollow Publishing, Creativica Magazine, Muse India, Poetry Pacific, Teeth Dream Magazine and so on. At present I am working as an Associate Professor in Economics.
Welcome to the Kitchen table, Pijush Kanti Deb, and we hope you join us again soon!
Let your life lightly dance on the edges of Time like dew on the tip of a leaf.