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Lines More Lunatic Than the Sun 1-3

Lines more lunatic than the sun – 1
.
making my friendship with the water-pigeon does not mean 
that i’ve acknowledged all devotion of the land-lotuses to river
without putting any note of dissent  

i’m still plunging my face 
into the heart of 
black-soil 
white 
is my thirst in clouds 

sometimes I wish to exchange the headlights 
of my flesh and blood 
with a ocean 

and put my palms 
together with regards 
to say to my all time-cheerful chest-pocket 

oh master let the age of my shadows 
be not more vivacious
than the flower-bed after marriage 

and without the help of any civic key 
let the drinking-bowl of an wish-baul 
walks as it wishes
							along my lips 

Lines more lunatic than the sun – 2

I offer so much love to the orioles

after then
	some defeats on the upper-level of the pea-leaves
have gathered somehow

then, the juvenescent white esculent fruit 
that has a conch-shell shape 
or the restless thunder
no one agrees to take the onus of maintaining my 
feeding 
and clothing 
and sheltering

on some compulsion 
I run to a grammar 
produced by the water

it is her indulgence with which 
I install forest in the mausoleum of the plural noun
install blending of sounds and compounding of words
and on reaching to the realisation of liberalism 
I install a notun-bouthan also

I get pain very much
on observing the memory of the bicycle

to the laugher and weeping  reserved for me only
why… without taking my permission… she sends 
such an apprentice
in the hands of whose a-c machine 
there is no fire-work  
at all

Lines more lunatic than the sun – 3

just in the middle of the bad luck
I cultivate 
some more boutique print

in the accident-prone foot of the kadam-tree
I deploy
a special correspondent of my own

putting my affidavit to the silk-worm
with myself 
	I’m going to start
			bihu-dance
in the juhu-beach 
Solo

comes to mind that date…i don’t remember..
 when together in the bus-stand
you and me
we were both speechless

to your that silence
was offered my bread and butter

then  in your those wide eyelids 
for a moment 
wasn’t put the shadow of any handkerchief 
made of clouds

after then the epic of the mice started

like the creeper and the tree
the servant with the maid-servant
in that enlarging fire
the cloud was burnt
the water too

from the tooth-ache there took birth
the nail-polish 
the hawai chappal 
my FM

Copyright © Murari Sinha | Year Posted 2010

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