PHILOMEL CANTUS

What you see is the creamy layer. If the cream itself is sour, Then who would want the cake.

I Poet, dip my pen In my own blood to write my songs...                               - Hareendranath Chattopadhyaya  Once my teacher quoted something like this in our class: "Many people write poems. Bad poets publish them and good poets burn them". I know that he was commenting on the false self impressions of amateur poets like me. But still, I was confused. Where do I belong in the above classification ? Or am I not a poet after all ? I knew that I would never publish in print, any of my works. Also I couldn't burn them. So I decided to put all of that in a blog. Since every person I knew were not interested in reading poetry, no one would visit my blog. At the same time I can also be happy when I see my works published on some platform, acknowledged or unacknowledged. Some of my friends may visit this blog, that too once or twice, out of their love for me. But it really doesn't matter. W...

It cripples me to think of it, Blinds me, deafens me, scrambles my wit. It numbs my legs and unbreaths me. But still it's all I can see. There a fallen rose under a boot, An old piper breaking his flute, Stains on a torn yellow shirt, A tramp sleeping near a pool of dirt. My eyes ache, filled with miseries. To see is to bear those worries, To bear them is to live them, And left will be a dry lonely stem. He was right before my eyes, There, like he was to be my prize. Wet eyes obstruct my sight, Even in that bloody broad daylight. There, on the side seat of this bus, Bent like a dying brownish lotus He sat, immersed in an uneasy slumber, Unawakened by the noises near. His posture speaks what's within, Tattered organs smeared with skin. Haunting fears repressed with faith, And coarse sorrows buried smooth. Half his life flooded with torments, Friends, brothers, family, all serpents, Their venom took more than life, And in life he only had more g...