Wednesday, September 23, 2015

Goirick Brahmachari- A Poem

Office Blues

5. if only 
we were all rivers
we could have comprehended blues
with all of its liquid aesthetics.

I often wonder if poetry comes through the books we read or,
Just from the weariness of this ordeal called life.
May be, life itself is a poem;
we are caged in-
We who do not sleep
fighting numbers with rhyme,
logic, with shrines

Now days do not pass. They merely reappear. I grow old waiting for nights, like those forlorn hawkers who cook the same snack every evening with the same spice, but no one buys them; wearing the same shirt, expecting magic, the same taste that creates a memory and marks a dot in the space of time-Like the sun, that puts me to sleep and days that teach clocks about responsibilities only to hurl me onto this strange, inevitable loop called sanity.

Another day, just like the other
drenched in a Summer, that falls over me
and the road calls upon madness
and the buildings are all weary 
in sweat, a city travels the day half asleep.
Another day spent browsing old Budget papers
of Indian states, those with high rice eaters;
and some faded estimates that were probably never realised.
My fingers become salt. I bite my nails 
after I taste the edges of these old papers, and sleep comes 
running through the dusty afternoons in a cold glass of water 
streaming in through my esophagus 
just after lunch. Anil, who cooks lunch for me everyday
tells me, 'Rice can cull secrets 
and tell stories of faraway rivers
soaked in a July sun', as I wonder
whether those expenses I collate remain undone.

Nothing makes sense anymore.
Not even, sitting for hours over blank excel sheets;
or, those bus rides back home through the cityscape, engulfed in a crimson dusk,
waking up in nausea, sleeping in through the dreams of nausea-
of a life
wasted in rain.
Numbers mock words who in turn mock numbers 
Now dreams are only memories
for there is nothing new to create
nothing new to prove
when this world validates.

No comments:

Post a Comment