Preface
The structure unveils
The meaning of things
Things black
skin white skin
We do not set apart
The structure
does
From Bangladesh
to Nicaragua
Things are handled
By women
With kid gloves
And we understand
The great role things play
In the history of mankind
The things matter in this power-play
Table Lamp
The bubble of radiance
a verse inscribed
on the brown shade
Enlightened within
And outwardly brilliant
blasé
Almost a genius
Under the light
The slumber lays the groundwork
Dropped off books and grimy cassettes
Show-cards
sonata dozing off
Beside a shellfish idol and a shiny stapler
A crisp spider web and a wilted flower
A conch shell lamp-holder from seashore
And a photograph
Incredibly effulgent
The things become
in the evening
At the glow of the table lamp
Pervasively polished
painless impersonal
The witless lamp-stand overlooks
All the intimate moments
Still, inside its stomach burns a filament
M shaped … Red
Table
There are tables.
Of all sorts.
Of which the writing desk has gone out of circulation.
I spared not a single effort to get one writing desk.
The writing desk is a real achievement.
First, you have to decide the perfect height
The second thing is the width
Next, how to get it cramped with things
And at last, the writing itself. Left to destiny.
Once you’re all set before your very own and loved
writing desk
You feel almost
like singing Tagore
“I walked down
the never-ending way to reach thy door step…”
Elsewhere, the tables are dwarfish
Naïve and innocent
Almost flirty with their
Ashtray
Water
Aspirin
Type writer
Remington’s shaggy red hair and blue eyes
He loved so much toying with tools
And His business, beside the window, writing crumbs of
his own life
Starved … shamed
Proust was pallid sickly
His delicate and bourgeois bed
When he woke up, his body had melted into the time
lost
With his senses shattered
His insomnious eyes dangling in the mirror
The solitary Tennessee Williams in the scorching
midday
Swarm of flies … tired
melancholic sexcited
Plump hausfrau… rapt in his tales… type writer
rattling
Green curtain door… the day wrapped in the duck
The tool crammed with visuals dawdles in the room
corner
The poet
failaureate and successful professor
Made his chemistry theses when he was young
Now junk… idle...
Crumbled pages of the time-worn novel
Al-Zolam
Emile Zola, Meer Zumla, Al-Zolam
The three friends sit beside my bed
Attend on my sleep by turns
Walk in my dreams and start swinging
Trade-off of attires their usual
favourite play
In the dream-forest of my night savage
The python creeps, the tiger crawls
The three musketeers all set
to guard the sleep
Shield the mind from horrors
And increasingly, I cling to them
From point two-five to point five
The revolvers get closer to me
Till point blank range.
Even awake, I can hear them
Accosting me
Emile Zola, Meer Zumla, Al-Zolam
My three playmates.
Featherpillow
This world of feathers. On the notches of pillows
The finger accosts you, uncanny
Sensations slide down to the ventral region
From the peritoneum; it’s your destiny.
So unsuspecting the faces around, how will you know
Your blindness hatches the lonesome night
Your holes loaded up with water
Your hard-sought fruits eaten up by beasts
No other left over than a love-hungry man
He is lying on the bed and fondles all day long
His breast and his own neck with the plume
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