Logomachy

featured in the poetry forum April 17, 2020  :: 0 comments

I read myself. This oomph of rationality. How the oddball
silently skyrocketing inside my body, its diurnal
science always unsettled

How the rest is not struck, at night too. But lettered. Insects pull
themselves to the bastion-elements of, oh, the
poor fire    That    becoming the best screenplay, written for
a prejudice. Me-&-Us, sitting in a reactive row, looking at
the open fire, vs unshaken moths, out in the window

We then grow metal roses out of a short curiosity.
Without plucking their smells, the road goes ahead. That’s how
ninety months like April tell me to walk on. Roads and roads and
roads of wasteful logomachy thus making the circle complete.
Which, essentially, means they let me spread the galaxy again,
with the legs and wings of thirty mythologies.
And I finally get the river coming out decoded, decoded

In this river, it is my global birth fishing. On the bank, a magic
word, falling neither from the sky nor blackboard, manifests in
the most living creatures. Disembowels creations to prove
my premature salts, papyrus, woods, dreams and urban wishes.
Then prepares a bagful of alphabets free to burst to my body

You know you can only fuse or abandon me, never read

editors note:

Spoken or read, we only have these little things to express everything, anything. Oh, my word! (We welcome Jayanta to our crazy congress of Contributing Poets with this submission. Read more of his madness on his new page – check it out.) – mh clay

In the long benchmark

featured in the poetry forum December 16, 2019  :: 0 comments

It’s very much a long, lavish bench one fine
Sunday in my mind, you sitting on it, reading a
newspaper striped in yellow crossing magenta,
the first page always me.
It is always an imagination being so kind,
making ruins separable,
making them connect the day you finally never find out.
As I imagine I’ve crossed those, day and night,
the heart says it is sheer a plank made for a deck-party,
the hollering constant upon it, but the strange
faces and disdainful miracles busy swimming below.
I know there’s another unknown day in a week,
and you lift your face from your paper, your face jittery,
like it reads why a love looks like a
subtle mammoth, it is always so much active and in flurry,
because it’s always so much brightened with helplessness.
One day the bench starts growing long,
unstopping, long enough to transcend globe-mapping,
me sitting beside you, jittery again like we’ve no hearts,
we’re only the seekers of this world with
an orphanage beating inside the ribcage in us

editors note:

Even when benched, the play is prodigious. – mh clay

Raining in a heart

featured in the poetry forum October 13, 2019  :: 0 comments

I believe it is always raining inside a heart
water brimming up,
and the night
waits for the world to be flooded.

All is an inevitable quotient
between emptiness and memory-flash

Think of a house wending back
and webbed in grey
Think of how time written in a bold font
on the backside of a garden-patio
Endless soil soaked in a water-coloured ink
You can best sense all as you hear the
dying sound of a horn kissed by a horizon
As you open an old basket,
fossils of the vacuum turn into
the continuum of pages and flowers.

I believe it is fascinating
to be lost in the talent like meadows.
Your eyes are the biggest metaphor
The reality is only a secret lane. A bottle of
perfume is lately broken in your name
Anesthetic fogs come out as I tell you, yes,
come, tell me it’s that, that,
nothing can change the sound of
downpour in my heart, but you can at least
know that one sitting deep in me with a
hard acquiescence has nothing to do with love

editors note:

A dubious drenching… – mh clay