Doctors prescriptions are read only
By apothecaries in street corners.
They master the doctor’s scribbles
With large sized imagination about
Where letters slip away or lead to.
Law makes them capital intensive
The letters all in capital large size
What a blow on a chemist’s pride,
Now as twisted as large intestines.
We get into conversation quickly
For our marionette jokes pulling,
Mildly fitted to a current context
The big joke lurking behind them.
Jokes are our magic of semantics,
Drawls from a prolonged tongue
The lips hiding the holes of truth
With splutter of laughter in eyes
Jokes are of some insignificance
Largely based on their intonation
And utter futility of speak effort.
we write poems when our women
turn sixty, like how we write them
about small -big things ,the thread
that passes binding us to an infinity
little things that make their poetry
and mine on the edges of the night.
sixty is a milestone in the vastness
of infinity that stretches before us.
We speak of our photo of woman
Staring at glass table and beyond.
She is a language born and raised
To be lost to a breathless infinity,
The last of the birds in migration.
She is wall that stares at a beyond
And has the murals about all of us.
With good part of the moon eaten
By a shadow of our earth mother,
Just now we espy in the east of sky
Stretchmarks like we find at night
On our mother’s child soft tummy,
And we see him back all of a piece
Grinning behind a waving coconut.
A farmer standing in green cow
Was he a defence against dust?
Not so ancient man drops a sun
As we stand here in green rice.
We are our defenceless ogglers
Of beauty to drop our own suns,
Just trying to fortify our bodies
Against dust by a fortwall of art.
These are not made of effulgent light
That dissipates to the interior of west.
They are made of real earth to break.
Watch made- to- break horse smiles
As their faces break in a comic mirth
Of earth horses expected to fly a sky.
(Bankura in West Bengal is famed for beautiful terra cotta horses made by traditional craftsmen)