A Crayon Coloured World

She picks out her favourite blue dress
And the pink that goes on her nails
Leaves a half-read book on the table
And a collection of unread mail

The sky is a shade grey to perfection
Green life passes by her window pane
There's a tree dancing in the wind

Rejuvenated after the rain

He flips up a silver coin
On a dusty brown table it lands
He chases ephemeral worlds
The last member of a music band

He picks up a yellow piece of paper
With a tale written in black ink
He had left her a thank you note
And the poem was a tenuous link

She rides into an orange sunset
A night of violet feelings awaits
He closes the door behind him
He is already an year late

He lives in a crayon coloured world
And the outlines are all in a haze
He waits for the end of the present
It's sadly not a passing phase

“There is no magic cure, no making it all go away forever.
There are only small steps upward; 
an easier day, 
an unexpected laugh, 
a mirror that doesn’t matter anymore.”

:)

Sararaat jhorer pore tomar kachhe asa
Bhebechhi shikhiyea debo sokalbelar bhasa

Sokaler gachhgulo sob nithor, jorosoro
Avijog, baagbitonda eriyea chole jhoro.

Se kebol jhapta lagay batase ar jole
Swobhabe dosyu tobu nijer kothai bole.

Amio amar kotha bujhiyea dite ese
Dekhechhi choukathe daag, chauni ekpeshe

Ke tomay ki bojhalo, vul kichhu, na thiki
Ami tao amar kotha amar motoi likhi.

Jotosob jotil byapar eriyea chole jhoro
Amar eai sohoj lekha sohoj bhabei poro

Sherin

ON A SUNNY DAY…….
He came……. and handed over to me…..
A wet handkerchief…

Faded flowers….
Torn edges…..
An impression of the first alphabet….
Of a name familiar than my thousand nightmares…..

I wish I could cry……

RASHOMON….
The poem on screen….. (he says)…..
Of the rains, untouched…..
And the monsoons, ‘unchased’………

But all that I am left with….
Is an umbrella………
As old as his weirdest phobia…
Striped, twisted and forsaken…..

I wish I could laugh at him…..

IN THE SPRINGS….
He comes closer…..
Fast, like the shooting stars…..
Green, like the water hemlocks….

I hear him whispering….
Get me…..but……
“Bend like a bow….”
“Bloom like a flower…..”

I wish I could tell him….he is wrong….

IN WINTERS…..
He never made his occurrence felt…..
I wish I could own a sweater……
Before the snow…
Before the frost……

Girls like you by The Naked and Famous

Run, whirlwind run
Further and further away
Into the sun
In, 20 minutes
Everyone will remember you when you're gone

What will you do when something stops you
What will you say to the world?
What will you be when it all comes crashing
Down on you little girl
How would you feel if nobody chased you
What if it happened tonight?

How would you cope it the world decided to
Make you suffer for all that you were!
How could you dance if no-one was watching
And you couldn't even get off the floor
What would you do if you couldn't even feel
Not even pitiful pain
How would you deal with the empty decisions
Eating away at the days?

Don't you know people write songs about girls like you
About girls like you..
About girl like you.. 

Its sting

If you were coming in the Fall,
I'd brush the Summer by
With half a smile, and half a spurn,
As Housewives do a Fly.

If I could see you in a year,
I'd wind the months in balls—
And put them each in separate Drawers,
For fear the numbers fuse—

If only Centuries, delayed,
I'd count them on my Hand,
Subtracting, till my fingers dropped
Into Van Diemen's Land.

If certain, when this life was out—
That your's and mine, should be—
I'd toss it yonder, like a Rind,
And take Eternity—

But now, uncertain of the length
Of this, that is between,
It goads me, like the Goblin Bee—
That will not state—its sting.

Never knew...

She had blue skin,
And so did he.
He kept it hid
And so did she. 
They searched for blue
Their whole life through,
Then passed right by -
And never knew.

Somebody That I Used To Know

Now and then I think of when we were together
Like when you said you felt so happy you could die
Told myself that you were right for me
But felt so lonely in your company
But that was love and it's an ache I still remember

You can get addicted to a certain kind of sadness
Like resignation to the end, always the end
So when we found that we could not make sense
Well you said that we would still be friends
But I'll admit that I was glad it was over

But you didn't have to cut me off
Make out like it never happened and that we were nothing
And I don't even need your love
But you treat me like a stranger and I feel so rough
No you didn't have to stoop so low
Now you're just somebody that I used to know...
somebody that I used to know...

Shhh...

Two loves in one...

Ki aase jay?

Bhiji amar-i moton...ki aase jay :)

Sunshine wali aasha...

Transcript :

Umeedon wali dhoop, sunshine wali aasha

Rone ke wajah kam hai, hasney ke bahaney zyada…
Zidd hai muskurayengein, khush rehne ka hai waada…

Umeedon wali dhoop, sunshine wali aasha

Tum dil se agar poochoge, woh khush rehna hi chahein
Jab sachey mann se maango, toh khul jaate hai raahein
Toh khul ke khushi lutao, yeh kya aadha aadha.

Umeedon wali dhoop, sunshine wali aasha
Umeedon wali dhoop, sunshine wali aashaaaaa…

What I want to know of you...

“It doesn't interest me what you do for a living. I want to know what you ache for, and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart's longing.

It doesn't interest me how old you are. I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love, for your dream, for the adventure of being alive.

It doesn't interest me what planets are squaring your moon. I want to know if you have touched the center of your own sorrow, if you have been opened by life's betrayals or have become shriveled and closed from fear of further pain! I want to know if you can sit with pain, mine or your own, without moving to hide it or fade it, or fix it.

I want to know if you can be with joy, mine or your own, if you can dance with wildness and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes without cautioning us to be careful, to be realistic, to remember the limitations of being human.

It doesn't interest me if the story you are telling me is true. I want to know if you can disappoint another to be true to yourself; if you can bear the accusation of betrayal and not betray your own soul; if you can be faithless and therefore trustworthy.

I want to know if you can see beauty even when it's not pretty, every day, and if you can source your own life from its presence.

I want to know if you can live with failure, yours and mine, and still stand on the edge of the lake and shout to the silver of the full moon, “Yes!”

It doesn't interest me to know where you live or how much money you have. I want to know if you can get up, after the night of grief and despair, weary and bruised to the bone, and do what needs to be done to feed the children.

It doesn't interest me who you know or how you came to be here. I want to know if you will stand in the center of the fire with me and not shrink back.

It doesn't interest me where or what or with whom you have studied. I want to know what sustains you, from the inside, when all else falls away.

I want to know if you can be alone with yourself and if you truly like the company you keep in the empty moments.” 

Love her...

Love her... When she sips on your coffee.
She only wants to make sure it tastes just right for YOU!

Love her... When she is jealous.
Out of all the men she can have, she chose YOU!

Love her... When she has annoying little habits that drive you nuts.
YOU have them too!

Love her... When her cooking is bad.
She tries for YOU!

Love her... When she makes you watch corny love dramas while the sport is on.
She wants to share these moments with YOU!

Love her... When she spends hours to get ready.
She only wants to look her best for YOU!

Love her... When often her eyes water suddenly.
She actually had a thought of losing YOU!

Rone de...

"‎Rone de aaj humko
Do aankhe sujane de!
Bahon mein ley ley
Aur khud ko bhig jane de
Hai jo sine mein kayed dariyaan
Woh choot jaiga
Hai itna dard
K tera daman bheeg jaiga...."

Past by Pablo Neruda

We have to discard the past
and, as one builds
floor by floor, window by window,
and the building rises,
so do we go on throwing down
first, broken tiles,
then pompous doors,
until out of the past
dust rises
as if to crash
against the floor,
smoke rises
as if to catch fire,
and each new day
it gleams
like an empty
plate.
There is nothing, there is always nothing.
It has to be filled
with a new, fruitful
space,
then downward
tumbles yesterday
as in a well
falls yesterday's water,
into the cistern
of all still without voice or fire.
It is difficult to teach bones
to disappear,
to teach eyes
to close
but
we do it
unrealizing.
It was all alive,
alive, alive, alive
like a scarlet fish
but time
passed over its dark cloth
and the flash of the fish
drowned and disappeared.
Water water water
the past goes on falling
still a tangle
of bones
and of roots;
it has been, it has been, and now
memories mean nothing.
Now the heavy eyelid
covers the light of the eye
and what was once living
now no longer lives;
what we were, we are not.
And with words, although the letters
still have transparency and sound,
they change, and the mouth changes;
the same mouth is now another mouth;
they change, lips, skin, circulation;
another being has occupied our skeleton;
what once was in us now is not.
It has gone, but if the call, we reply;
"I am here," knowing we are not,
that what once was, was and is lost,
is lost in the past, and now will not return.

22 se Srabon

Jekhane shurur kotha bolar aagei sesh
sekhane mukh dubiye khujte chawa amar e ovyesh
jekhane rod palano bikel belar ghran
sekhane chutbo bhavi gilbo golpo bhul hobe banan

ei bujhi foskalo haath ar kalo raat kore shomoy gelo ayojone
prottek din bhoy pawa shob ichhe gulo onek jhorer shobdo shone

ekbar bol nei tor keu nei, keu nei, keu nei
ekbar bol nei tor keu nei, keu nei, keu nei
ekbar bol nei tor keu nei, tor keu nei...

jebhave drishyo onek gilche amay roj
sebhavei aaral pele bhangchi ami hochhi je nikhoj
jekhane daak pathale mrito deher bhire
sekhanei tulchi chobi tolchi neshay aaschi abar fire

ei bujhi foskalo haath ar kalo raat kore shomoy gelo ayojone
prottek din bhoy pawa shob ichhe gulo onek jhorer shobdo shone

aaj sesh mesh nei tor keu nei, keu nei, keu nei
aaj sesh mesh nei tor keu nei, keu nei, keu nei
aaj sesh mesh nei tor keu nei, keu nei, keu nei

ekbar bol nei tor keu nei, tor keu nei...eh hey
tor keu nei...oh hooo
tor keu nei...aa haaa

Ghor! ~ Mondakranta Sen

Ghor bolte chayay ghera bari

Duuar khule uthone pa pore

Ghor bolte firbo taratari

Ghor bolte tomay mone pore

Ghor bolte math’er pore math

Aal’er dhare rod meleche paa

Deeghee’r kol’e bhanga shaan’er ghat

Bhaat reNdhechi, naite jabe na?

Ghor bolte sondhye neme ele

Pidim jwele bosbo pashapashi

Nijhum para, 8’ta beje gele

Durer theke shunbo rail’er baNsi

Ghor bolte somosto raat dhore

Ghumer thekeo nibir bhalobasa

Ghor bolte tomar du-chokh bhore

Sopno gulo kuriye niye asa

Ghor bolte esob khutinati

Ghor bolte akash theke bhumi

Ek dike poth, bisom haNtahaNti

Poth’er sesh’e, ghor bolte tumi!

My Grandmother's Love Letters - Hart Crane

There are no stars tonight

But those of memory.

Yet how much room for memory there is

 In the loose girdle of soft rain.

There is even room enough

For the letters of my mother’s mother, Elizabeth,

That have been pressed so long

Into a corner of the roof

That they are brown and soft,

And liable to melt as snow.

Over the greatness of such space

Steps must be gentle.

It is all hung by an invisible white hair.

It trembles as birch limbs webbing the air.

 And I ask myself: “Are your fingers long enough to play

Old keys that are but echoes: Is the silence strong enough

To carry back the music to its source

And back to you again

As though to her?”

 Yet I would lead my grandmother by the hand

Through much of what she would not understand;

 And so I stumble.

 And the rain continues on the roof

With such a sound of gently pitying laughter.

One Art - Elizabeth Bishop

The art of losing isn't hard to master;
 so many things seem filled with the intent
 to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

 Lose something every day.  Accept the fluster
 of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
 The art of losing isn't hard to master.

 Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
 places, and names, and where it was you meant
 to travel.  None of these will bring disaster.

 I lost my mother's watch.  And look! my last, or
 next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
 The art of losing isn't hard to master.

 I lost two cities, lovely ones.  And, vaster,
 some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
 I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

 ---Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
 I love) I shan't have lied.  It's evident
 the art of losing's not too hard to master
 though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.