Poetry truth or absurdity

Poetry for some
Is just a fantasy,
An imagination,
An unreal entity,
That has color
But has no mass,
Has essence
But has no surface.
They build
A palace in the space,
Having walls of air,
Roof of cloud,
Everything fake
As their fake personality,
Fraudulent as their identity.

For me poetry is a real me,
My psyche, my vibe,
My  smile, my cries.
My deeds and even misdeeds
 Of the past and the present
My expectations and desires,
From the life, from the future,
And from the Master.

When I feel sad it sheds tears,
When happy it gifts flowers,
When in anger it generates fire,
When in devotion it sings  prayer.

Poetry is a truth of me,
Hence,,its my soul.

ହେତୁ ବୁଡିଲା କାଳେ

ତୋତେ ମୁଁ ଧ୍ୟାଇଛି ହେତୁ ପାଇବା ଦିନୁ,
ଦିନେ ଦୂରେଇନି କାହ୍ନା ତୋତେ ମୋ ମନୁ ।

ଜଗତ ପ୍ରଦତ୍ତ ଯାହା କଷଣ ବ୍ୟଥା,
କାନ୍ଦି କହିଛି ମୁଁ ତୋତେ ସବୁ ସେ କଥା ।

ଅନୁଭବ କରିଛି ତୋ ଆଦେଖା ହାତ,
ଅଯାଚିତେ ହରିଛି ମୋ ଦୁଃଖ ସମସ୍ତ।

ଖୁସି ଯେବେ ବାଣ୍ଟିଛି ଗୁପତେ ମୁଁ ତୋତେ,
ଆଖି ବୁଜି ଦେଖିଛି ତୁ ହସୁ କେମନ୍ତେ ।

ମାଲିକ ପଣେ ଜଗତେ ତୁ ଏକା ସାର,
 ଦାସ ପ୍ରଦୀପ୍ତ ମନର ତୁ ଅଧୀଶ୍ଵର ।

ଏତିକି ମିନତୀ କାହ୍ନା ତୋର ଚରଣେ,
ହେତୁ ବୁଡିଲା ବେଳକୁ ଆସିବୁ ମନେ ।

OUR RELATION

A student forgets his teacher,

Once he completes his academic career.

A son forgets his mother,

When he gets a beautiful life-partner.

Man forgets his previous penurious status,

Once he becomes prosperous.

A political leader forgets the voters,

Once the elections are over.

A woman forgets her first lover,

Once she enters the home of her life-partner.

A patient forgets the doctor,

Once he comes out of the hospital door.

A writer forgets her encourager,

Once her pen reaches certain stature.

May it be shocking for you,

But it is true,

That people make relations

To fulfill certain intentions,

They break relations,

And move away from those persons

Once their intentions are fulfilled,

Or the hopes of fulfillment end.

To your happiness and comfort,

Our relation is free from material thoughts,

Devoid of any selfish intention,

Personal loss and gain,

Hence a heaven,

And beyond any comparison.

It is pure and pious love for each other,

So it is permanent and divine in nature.

YOUR MUSE

I don’t forget,

You once admit,
Your pen once confess,

That I am your muse,

 I am the spirit,

 Of your art,

I am the origin

Of your fountain.

To the pleasure of that spirit,

To the pride of that sprout,

Now your art grows to be a wonder,

That thin flow becomes a river.

Today, enchanted by that achievement,

You neglect that spirit, forget that sprout,

Obvious, gratefulness is a great art,
Not many can actually have that.

Someone truthfully confessed somewhere,

Awesomely narrated on a piece of paper,

That the gush of a fall never retreats,

A proudly soul never regrets.  

But that spirit will always clap with the audience,

And will forget to remember your promises.

ରଜ-ମଉଜ

ଆ' ଲୋ ବଉଳ ରଙ୍ଗ ଲଗେଇବା,
                  ଆଜି ପରା ସଜବାଜ,
ସାଥି ହୋଇ ଆମେ ଗାଁ ବୁଲି ଯିବା,
                  କାଲିକି କରିବା ରଜ ।

ବୋଉ କୁଟିଲାଣି ଅରୁଆ ଚାଉଳ,
                  ଦୁଲୁକି ଯାଉଛି ଢିଙ୍କି,
ପୋଡପିଠା କଥା ଭାବି ଭାବି ମୋର,
                   ମନ ଉଠୁଛି ମହକି ।

ବାପାଙ୍କୁ କହିବି ଘର ଅଗଣାରେ
         ବାନ୍ଧି ଦେବେ ମୋର ଦୋଳି,
ନୂଆ ଜାମା ପିନ୍ଧି, ରଜ ପାନ ଖାଇ,
               ସେଥିରେ ଯିବି ମୁଁ ଝୁଲି ।

ଝିପି ଝିପି ବରଷାରେ  ଯେବେ
                        ବହୁଥିବ ମିଠା ବାଆ,
ଦୋଳି ଉଡେଇବି ବିହଙ୍ଗମ ପରି,
                   କରି ବିହାୟସ ଛୁଆଁ ।

ଗାଧୋଇ ପାଧୋଇ ସଜବାଜ ହେବି
                        ସକାଳୁ ଉଠି ସଅଳ
ବଉଳଙ୍କ ମେଳେ ଖେଳି ବସିବିମୁଁ
                       ଲୁଚକାଳି ପୁଚି ଖେଳ ।
                      
ପୋଡପିଠା ସାଥେ ଚକୁଳି ଆରିସା,
                      ପାଚିଲା ଆମ୍ବ, ପଣସ
ଆମ ବୋଉ ହାତ ବଡ ସୁଆଦିଆ,
                     ଖାଇବ କାଇଁଚ ଆସ ।

ହସି ଖେଳି ଆମେ ସମୟ କାଟିବା,
                        ତିନୋଟି ଦିନ ଏ ରଜ,
ବାଣ୍ଟିଲେ ବଢିବ ଏକା ଏକା ଫିକା,
                         ଆମ ଏ ରଜମଉଜ ।

YOUR COYNESS

Our hearts are intertwined,

Lives knotted in a sweet bond,

Still we don’t have romantic chat,

As your tongue doesn’t openly depict,

The vibration of your in-love heart.

I know, coyness is the reason,

Behind your such hesitation,

And to your pleasure my woman

I am not worry; rather I love your reason,

Because it is a precious figuration,

 Of a decent and proud Indian woman.

Moreover, a sweet feelings is not dependent,

 Upon words, rather actions are its lieutenants,

 I understand everything from your sleepy eyes,

 From your deep breaths, trembling voice,

And too from the beauty of your romantic verses.

WE CAN'T LIVE LIKE STRANGERS

We disagree on ideology
Philosophy of life,
Relationship matters,
Life styles, writings,
Conversations, decisions.

Not so significant things,
Become issues,
We fight over them,
Hot words exchange,
Annoyance creeps in,
Makes both of silent,
For indefinite period,

But we never show our backs
Towards each other,
We never take our eyes
Of each other,
We never think ill
Of each other,
We never stop praying,
For each other.

Because we are not strangers,
Once our eyes meet each other,
Once our hearts vibrate for each other,

 I am sure,
We will never be able,
To live like strangers.
Certainly we will die,
The day we will try,
To live like strangers.

YOU ARE GREAT

Every now and then,

You appear in my psyche,

 As a dazzling star,

Jolt my inner being,

Revamp my thought,

And lighten my wisdom.

The enchanting pleasure,

Of your invisible presence,

Removes the gloom,

Of ignorance, fear, disbelieve,

From my tiny heart,

And boost me to live,

For truth and divinity.

Before your bodiless being,

 I open up like a book,

So that you can read me,

 Cry like a child,

So that you console me,

Smile like a blooming flower,

So that you can smell my aroma .

I do not know,

How I could pay you back,

For all that you had given me,

Hence I bow again and again

 Before your gracious persona.

THE EARTH: AN INN

The earth is the inn,

 Into which I walk in,

 For a brief stay as a traveler,

 For some countable years.

From where I come,

To pass this short vacation,

 After completion where to go,

 I do not know.

But I am certain of one truth,

That I will have to go away from this earth,

 The way many like me come, stay,

 And willingly or unwillingly went away.

When I painted the period,

Of my stay in this world,

On a canvas representing time infinite,

 It becomes a dot invisible to my naked eye.

 The earth’s life being a day,

 A spark of lightning is my stay,

When to do so many things I feel confused.

 During this brief and unpredictable period.

YOUR CALLOUSNESS

The air appears motionless,

The sky looks colorless,

The birds in the sky seem hanging

 And not flying,

People on the road

Appear in statue mode,

 Without any indication

Of their motion.

It seems as if to augment my torment,

 The ocean forgets to generate waves,

And has became silent.  

When my eyes,

Roll around the whole nature,

It looks as if someone painted,

 A portrait on a canvas.

In the neighborhood,

 A loudspeaker is playing a love-song,

 But surprisingly,

 I am not feeling excited in its theme,

 My tongue is not repeating its rhyme,

 My heart is not vibrating with its lines,

My head is not moving with its rhythm.

 You were gone,

Without caring my emotions,

Without giving me an intimation,

 About the time of your return.  

When the thought of your callousness,

 And your innocent face,

 Shadowed my core,

My eyes become blinded with tears.

THE LAST LETTER

 I am silent,

Not that I do not wish to chat,

Not that I have nothing to say,

Not that I change my way.

I am silent because,

You never understand,

That whatsoever I said,

Or whatsoever I did,

Was guided by my pious intentions,

Was enriched with my selfless affection.

I am sad,

Not because this is my last letter,

Not because I am going away from your sphere,

But because my presence does not benefit you,

But because my life doesn’t serve your purpose.

I am thankful to thee,

For whatsoever you give me,

And I assure you that I will respect,

Those as the precious properties of my life.