Because
I can’t be a poet
for all the time
I spit on Tagore’s Grave
It’s a long story….
before I was born
destiny was fixed
by a lovely midnight croon
I am born a Bong
in Tagore’s spitting image
everywhere I go
people ask me about
Rasgulla and Tagore-
both are edible
commodities
I wear it like Psoriasis on my soul
I spit on Tagore’s Grave
It’s a love story like never before
a new nation is born
every time Nabarun cries out
‘This death valley is not
the country of my own’
as Tagore is sworn-in
Gurudev, where are you?
show me light
show me where you are
so I can spit on Tagore’s Grave
Tribals are bad words
but good sculptures
erected on the lawns of Shantiniketan
they ain’t, no good citizens
I wonder how Tagore did acquire
the Chosen Land
what the nation was looking for?
was there any protests?
any movements like Nandigram?
Nation comes first
and with that national interests
free for all
Tribals are bad words
but good sculptures
erected on the lawns of Shantiniketan
they ain’t, no good citizens
I have got balls
in the socket of my eyes
so I can’t see the beauty of it all
I spit on Tagore’s Grave
you can put me in jail
but the midnight tongue
will wag its tales
the jingle jangle, the prittle prattle
of trinkets, flutes and traditional drums
and Tagore would copy
yet another song from
the books of the Bauls
I stand accused for blasphemy
such a noble epithet
for calling out the ‘national’ names
I am just a pair of balls
in lieu of my eyes
as I spit on Tagore’s Grave
Published Poet
I can’t always be a poet.
I have to finish
my half-eaten lunch
write letters to the editors
make love to my girlfriend
go to market and buy stuffs
tend to the plants
in my kitchen garden
be an affable talker
to the people around
and a responsible son
of a respected household.
Then I would smoke
a few cigarettes
puffing away the remnants of poetry
and feel free to write again
like a loop of abandoned music
played on the discarded LP disc
I snap poems
like swatting the mosquitoes
that feed on my blood
it leaves its stains
on my body
like ephemeral marks
of memories and melancholy
that I tap into
for my genie scribbles
and become a conman magician.
Because
I can’t be a poet
for all the time
Cover Illustration by Marynn
About the Author
