I sat at my desk and rubbed my eyes,
Rocking back and forth in my grey
Office chair. The coffee I drank caused my loins to
Burn so I stood up to take a leak.
Passing my bedroom mirror, I saw
My profile and noticed that
My chest was round and peacockish.
The burning moved from my groin
To my right hand. I grabbed an
Unfinished volume of my thoughts from the
Shelf and peeled back the skin. I found
My place (as I often do) and navigated
My Pilot across the strict ruled page.
Black streams of thought formed like
A fetus in the womb, kicking my insides.
My breathing was fast, then slowed to the
Rhythm of my heartbeat. I pushed.
What was on the inside was coming
out. I looked down at my son. My hand was
Limp and my chest concaved.
I am overcome with sorrow.
I do it again tomorrow.
Striking the keys in my notebook
I think about the syntax of my unfinished paragraph.
Research is locked inside my vault, and won’t commit itself
to paper. As I take a
breath of fresh, recycled library air, I lift my eyes beyond
my computer screen,
past the orange chair to my right
out of the long picture window, above the valley but below
the sun.
The moisture in the air mixed with orange hues of light
looks like me—it seems to hold thoughts of its own; thoughts
made of water that
resist the ground (but who could blame them?).
On the other hand, my pages need filling and we need the
water.
luxury is part of progress
and writing constitutes that luxury
we live in age of plenty
everything we need is accessible
if we know where to look
i know where to look
and i practise writing as form of luxury
that is it.
the words need to be beautifully-provoking
you cannot subjugate them.
they must remain random and free.
they will take time, but be eager.
and when it finally gets out on paper.
you will feel better.
reach for that inspiration,
look for your muse.
and only time will tell
if the words can be put to use.
"Where so many rush to fall asleep,
I tend to creep,
afraid of the a lack of light,
what's in store for tonight.
Would you like to know why?
I'm afraid of what's inside,
what I always seem to need,
what sleeps within me.
When the darkness falls
and my mind succumbs to sweet slumber,
lumbering in comes the pattering of feet,
clawed, and I can't seem to scream.
I try to get out from underneath the covers,
to run away, but I am stayed
by the sudden jacket, holding arms back,
while at my heels chases the maniac.
It is the ghoul, it's in my room,
and now theres nothing but abyss,
amiss of clothes and shoe and tooth
as I run to only bring closer nothingness.
And now I am within reach, looking back
at the black teeth, to tear my wide and tall,
before tripping onto face,
no hands to break the fall.
And looking to what had cause the trip,
innocent children, empty faces,
look into me, through me, and it hurts,
it burns, no clue why they are in my plight.
And now taking flight, they chase me too,
I am running to a single point,
straight jacket still applied,
my escape impossible, my voice mute.
Again, so focued to the rear,
I forget about the front,
looking ahead to see now in front of me
the biggest snake ever slithers on scene.
The snake grows bigger, stopping,
rearing its head, baring its fangs,
it wraps me in it's tail,
and squeezes me tight.
I can't stand the grip, crying out,
but no sound comes,
just the sound of my eyes popping out,
and the sound of the plop.
The drop of me, hitting the carpet,
falling onto the floor, blanket wrapped around me,
back in my room, not monsters,
no snake no ghoul.
Just the sweat drenched shirt,
the paper-dry throat,
rattled, another night lost
to the internal battle. Nightmares reign."
"The Castle was gigantic.
Expansive, was it's wide thrust,
filled with cracks, crevices and uneven bricks
pock-marked with mortar turning to dust.
Inside the deep recess
was a dormant terror,
up in it's highest tower,
a princess lived, none fairer.
But both were locked up,
the furnace inside the gargantuan beast
kept the Castle warm,
the ovens hot, promoting many a feast.
But lest the monster
breaks its shackles!
As once had happened before,
the quest none could tackle.
Knight after knight
fell to the flame,
the winged lizard licking tongues
of fire all about, untamed.
Many an arrow was shot
from hunters brave,
but no purchase for any arrow
was, by the monster hide, gave.
Spear was no better,
having been thrown hard and true,
but not a single mighty heft
would force a metal tip through.
Then one day,
the princess who lived above,
just asked, 'give me a chance!',
but her father would allow no tug.
So that night,
while the great serpent ravaged the land,
she scaled down her tall tower
with the most daring plan.
She crept along the meadow,
in the cold of the moonlit night,
and up the the snoozing beast
she stomped her boot with all her might.
The beast sprung up,
startled awake by such a petite thing,
but before he bellowed flame,
she started to sing.
Sweetly, softly,
she sang out her heart,
and through spirit, ripped hers out,
and handed it over, so that they'd never be apart.
Since then,
the two remain locked up with no regret.
The land has since healed.
But many don't forget.
Of the Girl and her Wyrm,
the star-crossed lovers never meant to be.
And how through love and song
she saved all the eye could ever see."
"Almost tiring,
the bump of the shoulders passing by,
the hallways so full of students, mean,
their intentions unknown to what they vie.
But the Janitor,
mop handle twisting in wrists,
cleans the bustling halls, murder
of the sparkling floors committed with fervor.
Moreover, the students don't care!
But no matter, the Janitor smiles as he cleans,
leaning on his swab bucket, no flair
for how unfair redoing the swab job is.
But now it is after five,
the older gentleman is working his way up and down,
the passageways now empty,
all the students long gone home.
Quite the opposite scene,
from when the school was full,
a loud and swarming event, specifcally
during the lunch periods.
And during those times? While constantly
going back and forth, picking up spills
and keeping the floor clean,
he even feels grumpy.
But only now at this momement,
a longing, a forlorn feeling wraps itself
over the un-bumped shoulders of the man,
alone, doing his job.
The sudden wish the students were there,
to fill the empty space he cleans,
the abandoned place to fill up soon,
but not a moment too late, he steams.
All the moments that he's spent,
breaking up a fight between two boys,
frankly taking both collars in each hand
and talking to them sharply, they listened.
The time he talked to the crying girl,
leaning on the mop handle, wise counsel
spewed at a comforting rate to the young one
who had her first broken heart.
Or the time he tutored the troubled youth,
not in math or english but in life,
the boy sticking around while he cleaned.
alone, his only brother having been knifed.
Every smile he evoked,
with silly, word-play jokes,
every time he snapped at young students passing by,
keeping the rowdy in line.
The old man now smiled himself,
finishing up the entire school,
looking forward to the bustle to come,
the lockers that will slam, voices, loud.
The end of this feeling, eerie,
sudden, and no more farther then
when he will grumble, with a slight smile,
of the busy hallways where he will be bumped again."
লিখলে আনন্দ মিলে,
মন বেলুনের মত হালকা লাগে!
সত্যি বলছি! এ নয় কথার কথা!
চিত্ত যেন মেঘ হয়ে আকাশে ভাগে!
পাথরের সাথে পাথর ঘষলে,
যেমন ক্ষয় হয় নিশ্চয়,
তেমনি করে আমার মনের কষ্ট হয় ক্ষয়,
বাক্যের যাতায় পিষ্ট হয়!
একেকটি বাক্য হয়ে উঠে একেকটি বুলডোজার!
দাঁড়াবে কষ্ট মুখোমুখি! সাধ্য কি আছে তার?