Essence Of Silence
Pranab k c
12/08/2011
Doors closed
windows pane stiff with silence
sound of near past in the whole background
roaring the wilds they became two the different genders
and a shadow of soft dear palm slowly catering
the dish of urgency of coming back again
no footsteps, no movement of rattling wind even
no probability of assuming the ecstatic appearance
embodiment of any longing or embarrassing embrace
of lamentable constipation of those sensuous past-moments
no the grave with dirty rust of dust and condemnable clarity
but a passion simply old with punctuating accentuation
of love, more than love or no-love paradox
tuned with superb and intensified expression
confined in the cage of acceptance and rejection
door closed but opens an opening
wide with no-door ever been build anywhere
where you me they're playing altogether
naked with no-flesh, illuminating strictly the light-particles
beyond the hazards of birth rebirth and death.
poem by Pranab K. Chakraborty
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Related quotes
No Attachments
the room where you sleep
does not take hold of you
your bed cannot be part of your skin
and your windows are nothing but
the ordinary closing and opening
of your day
you like a door that opens
to nowhere
you have diamonds in your hands
you spread them
in the garden and you see
how they all glitter for a while
darkness folds and
light of another day opens
you take a walk and whistle
you don't remember the color of the blanket
you forget what warmth was there on that bed
you do not care whether the windows are closed or open
you move to another house
and tell your stories all over again
there is no blink in your eyes
there is no stammering in your tongue
you do not tell them what you love
there are no hands too familiar to hold you back
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Secrets Of The Loving Person
the room where you sleep
does not take hold of you
your bed cannot be part of your skin
and your windows are nothing but
the ordinary closing and opening
of your day
you like a door that opens
to nowhere
you have diamonds in your hands
you spread them
in the garden and you see
how they all glitter for a while
darkness folds and
light of another day opens
you take a walk and whistle
you don't remember the color of the blanket
you forget what warmth was there on that bed
you do not care whether the windows are closed or open
you move to another house
and tell your stories all over again
there is no blink in your eyes
there is no stammering in your tongue
you do not tell them what you love
there are no hands too familiar to hold you back
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Offering As An Ignorant
The tune
You tuned
At the time
Of my birth
Cryingly I find
To harmonize
My living
My love
My journey
To make its end
The tune
You tuned
I listen in the wind
The dream sends the signal
Yet the life the present the past
The seeker I ever unrest
Unsettled to synchronize
Me with the chariot
The rein you hold
Yourself yet to path unending
After death
After...after....
The song I have to sung
For the final return!
Pranab k c
21/06/2012
poem by Pranab K. Chakraborty
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The Past
Looking back, looking at you
Loving you alone not even a few,
Waiting there, waiting for you,
Like a man in a long queue
I knew my love was due,
I sworn not to love a few,
But to love only you
The moments we had did last,
Looking at you, looking at the past,
It was love, it was never lust,
The wonderful momentss in the dust,
And the dances in the grass,
The kisses in the mist,
Yes those I do miss,
The moments of laughter and peace,
With great precision and bliss,
Its the past, never did it last
Thinking you, seeing the past
By then we thought it could last,
The love just pure and vast,
In my mind you were the first,
Among the loved you were the most,
Its a phase, its the past
You made us damp and we had rust,
In my mind you are now the last,
It was love by then, it is the past
poem by Gaylord Munemo
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Dropping By Your House This Morning
i dropped by your house this very early morning
the windows are closed
but the door is half-open
and i could have given in to this little curiosity
that cats keep on their paws
and soft feet
or hands if you may
but i didn't. there is something in the houe
that says
you had a bad day and that night you did not have
a sound sleep
the roses are wilting and a flower pot falls on the ground
broken
the soil splashed like spilled water on the grass
there is no sound of the wind
from the storm last night
i just dropped by. I respect you. The door of the house
finally closed
i did not see the hands that closed it.
it maybe yours
or someone else's
the rug has spoken. You want to be alone.
to keep the faint light left
in that little room. the curtains fall. the lights
went off on that very early morning.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Valley Of No Flowers
Pranab k c
08/2011
The valley never gets free from its glory
grey its wide openness never hides death
from its extreme interior of visibility
and metaphorical existence
My ancestors once played their flute to salute the peak
high so high the stiff never kept their feet anymore
only light they seen as we the worthless parasites
yet find flickering truth to burst ourselves with pride
The valley never ends its utterly paradox to greet again
when mermaids hallucinating watery surface to swim
a light of deeming dusk playing a gallop to hold our reign
mighty strength the dancing horses no more on the ground
a beautiful paranoia with its suddenness
calls the trip to hooting
a burning sensation of utmost deviation
from narrow to nut
from depth to expansion
the whole civilization captivating its highness
the death must not the other side of life
must not the romantic moontraker
simply gazetting the orientalism of artistic fatigue
its a real charm of diminishing the height of any peak
the valley enjoys everywhere with the grey
we yet just waiting
to hide ourselves forever the sanctity of humanness
only a subtle obsession of eradicating solitude
flows silently with no sound morbidity
and etheral punctuation repeatedly backbites our calm footsteps
not to reach there, not to grip the tricks
the valley always hankering
to mould our flesh snatching from our soul
poem by Pranab K. Chakraborty
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Door Removed, Window Unshuttered 1743
Tired men react to role-reversing reel,
Harsh judgement pass upon deceptions deep.
Exit by bear pursued few locks will keep
Door closed, and shuttered windows soon reveal
Only introspection that will weep
On dust of love's rejection past. We feel
Remorseless fate exacts a price too steep.
Rise through regrets which may disguise surprise
Events which Cause/Effect invents to try
Most patience, represent in other guise
Other guy's advance to Chance defy.
Vain complaint when heart new part may chart,
EDition true heals smart, stamps vis[t]a's start.
Windows open, idem doors, draft draught,
Ideas interlink transparently,
New horizons, visibility.
Dreams, once distant, closer draw, light shaft
Opportunity accepts as raft
Which on life's stream surfs forward looking, free,
Undulating through waft/weave waves we
Never knew we knew before. Life laughed.
Sadness dissolves, pain's soothed. Pane mind may craft
Hearing tastes few see, paradox, at sea,
Unleashes flash synaptic energy,
Turns bias topsy-turvy. Joy's witchcraft
TERrain prepares: once blind, mind focus finds,
REDrawn perception redefines, unbinds.
(13 May 2008)
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Buddhist Lesson # 2
enlightment,
the act of opening,
like a rosebud,
like a mother,
opening the door...
like a child
opening a present,
like a woman
opening to a man....
opening...
all the hidden chambers,
every door to every
secret kingdom of the soul.....
opening the box that holds
your secret thoughts, desires....
opening...
the door of the cage,
letting the winged breath fly....
opening....
your heart to itself,
and to all hearts beating....
opening....
the vault of conceptions,
the entrance to the tomb
of past lives and memories....
opening...
your hands to the world
as if it were your neighbor,
and you, it's home!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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L8,2212
There is a door which you open
you enter, and then it closes you
behind you
forever,
there is no force here,
but only volition,
you enter it
with all the warnings,
that the
possibility that it will close forever
has been told to you
over and over
again,
somehow, you do not make it a problem
you like a closed door, and you hate it
when it opens,
you love it when it is closed forever,
the room is nice
there is a certain loveliness
in there,
it has shiny floors,
it has a bright ceiling,
the lights are lovely,
like stars
in an open dark sky
the air is fresh,
the walls are comfortable
who wants to take an exit?
no one.not you.
when the door knows this, it will open
forever,
it decides to open for you
and it will tell you to go out and be
an outsider again and
be gone
for good,
you insist that you own this room now,
that a closed door is not a serious matter
and there is no way that you have to
go out
or be ousted,
the door has a stair with strong hands
and it will drag you out
it will pull your hair and drag your body
like hell
the door has learned its lesson
when the room is not a prison to someone else
there is no use keeping him there forever
for in truth the reason of the door's
existence
is to make you feel the prison and to suffer
and you know your lesson too well
there is no prison to a mind that is an open window
there is no suffering
to a lover of suffering
you see, it takes a little reverse psychology
for closed doors to open
for men to know that suffering is not suffering
at all
when one loves is tripping
when one thinks
otherwise
when one loves whatever happens
when one accepts
the one that is there and not look for something
that is always missing
why go for the unreachable?
why suffer for long?
life is life, and death is death
you are here, grab this here.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Spring Song
ALL winter through I sat alone,
Doors barred and windows shuttered fast,
And listened to the wind's faint moan,
And ghostly mutterings of the past;
And in the pauses of the rain,
'Mid whispers of dead sorrow and sin,
Love tapped upon the window pane:
I had no heart to let him in.
But now, with spring, my doors stand wide;
My windows let delight creep through;
I hear the skylark sing outside;
I see the crocus, golden new.
The pigeons on my window-sill,
Winging and wooing, flirt and flout,--
Now Love must enter if he will,
I have no heart to keep him out.
poem by Edith Nesbit
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Dry Leaves Beside My Door
a door half-closed
the wind comes with some dry leaves
coming in
through it
and then
spread on the floor
under my bed
i watch it
feeling that i am junked
even the wind
has mistaken me as
another
garbage
and so i finally closed my
door
tight
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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God and goodness and Hope.....
I have always wanted to be
what you are,
oh, how i like it to be
where you are now,
and so i follow you,
every step
that you have taken
is a map
of my destination
you are inside that room and
i want to be in there too
but the door is locked, i knock and
no one hears it,
you are deaf and blind
no one opens the door for me
and i begin to
look at the window
they are closed too and i go behind the house
to find the kitchen door
it too, is closed
and i stand there alone
outside, and it rains and there is that sound of
thunder and
lightning is the only one that
gives me the flashes of light
to light my path
i am scared, of course, i am normally scared
by what is happening
and you are there showing your back at me
dining with the rest of your
guests
these successful people
who hold in their hands
fame and fortune
and who can withhold or grant other
people's opportunities
i am abandoned, and you are there inside that room
with all these societal gems
i give up,
i shall find another world of my own,
where opportunities are given for free
no dirty tricks, no influences, plain merit and
fitness, and
skill and competence,
i will work it out
from within, and i challenge myself with these words:
'soon, soon! '
i will be there,
because i am good and God will hand it to me.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A glimpse
a glimpse
the half opened door
some would say
a half closed door
it all depends on the
state of mind you are in
well half closed for pessismist
and half opened for optimist
half opened or half closed door
so long as it is open
and not close
a good exercise for the mind
of a story teller, novelist, a film maker
a glimpse at the half closed door
the mind is thrown open
like the kick you would give
a half opened door
so that you and pet cat could
glide through easily
the stories that start coming out
from a glimpse at the half opened door
agatha's murdered corpse lying behind
a stalker, a ghost in the corridor of the mind
from the glimpse of the half closed door
a million possibilities, ideas pouring forth
half closed door, half opened door
whichever way you may say
it is an opened door
a million stories, ideas, possibilities
knock at the door of my mind
a glimpse of the half closed, half opened door
my half closed half opened eyes
open themselves to my ever curious mind
boundless as the universe
inspired by
A Glimpse
A GLIMPSE, through an interstice caught,
Of a crowd of workmen and drivers in a bar-room, around the stove,
late of a winter night-And I unremark'd seated in a corner;
Of a youth who loves me, and whom I love, silently approaching, and
seating himself near, that he may hold me by the hand;
A long while, amid the noises of coming and going-of drinking and
oath and smutty jest,
There we two, content, happy in being together, speaking little,
perhaps not a word.
Walt Whitman
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Constipated Conscious
Pranab k c
23/09/2011
talent makes you different
but common you in flesh
when touch I the switch
just above your chin
fire shows me the song
last I got from obscene
when talent dominates the flesh
desert flashes with sandy storming
when flesh dominates the talent
it gets another passage of streaming
since you is one as one is me
come on touch the soil
where stone and dust
peacefully coexisting
stone become dust
and dust becomes stone
need quakes fit high
with deep drifting
talent needs flesh to play with string
and flesh blows fire to ignite playing
nothing common is the game
nothing singular is the passion
it is law we are standing
what gravitation plays unseen
poem by Pranab K. Chakraborty
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Amazing Unknown
doors and windows dipped in dark
closing tight you sleep alone
when you sleep opens window other
another you just moving free from you
whether desert or jungle
whether graveyard or womb
your high ankles never touch the soil
swimming deep in moonlit waves
Ocean tranquils your immense burns
beauty placid fills your veins nerves
the blue above smiles
invites the journey with clouds
the shore
mangroves
long long stretched their mysterious depth
unrest your passion
diving desperate to embrace uncertain
fly with wind wings you spread
cities unknown of forgotten past
countryside-inn of unknown janapadas
opens window another
to brief you cosmic abyss
fly you cry you laugh your unchanted aura
when you sleep
always curious I can't follow
the journey
you alone
the journey
the glide...!
Pranab k c
Edited on 06/10/2012
poem by Pranab K. Chakraborty
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Behind The Door
With trembling hand,
I knocked upon the door,
which someone had sent me to.
They told me a new life
awaits me there.
I reached out
and knocked on the door
not knowing when it opened
exactly what I’d find.
My heart beat faster,
almost racing from my chest.
I could hear footsteps
coming from within.
My hand trembled even more
as the footsteps headed towards the door.
I stood there in anticipations
as the door begins to open wide.
So far, I have not told you
who will be coming to the door.
Will it be a long lost sibling,
a future love, or even God?
I will have to let you decide,
because being a nervous person.
The suspense was killing me,
so I ran and hid, and never saw
who was it answering the door.
poem by David Harris
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My Heart Is Done
And now my heart is done
Tired and broken by the lies
The silence I have come accustomed to
Love presented no open doors
For each closed before my feet
And I once so loving, hope filled
Feel ashamed and defeated
Having chanced my heart over and again
For nothing but a sorrowful poem
Something penned to ease my pain
The loneliness I cannot describe
The are few who would listen anyhow
It is strange the effect of heartache
How it shapes your words and actions
Unable to communicate or trust
You become a character of occasion
Never playing a true part
Then a light a belief to risk once more
Only for nothing, nothing again
No other heart to keep company
Just another closed door
So that is it, now one too many
My heart is done
poem by Matthew Holloway
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A Memory Of Love
I came upon a house so bare.
I knew there could be no one there.
I wished to enter so I knocked.
No one answered. The door was locked.
I saw a window through which I peered
and saw it looked just as I feared,
lonely, deserted, cold and musty
cobwebs hanging, everything dusty.
The need to go inside
was an urgency I could not hide.
Should I break the door or shatter the pane?
Encouragement came when I felt the rain.
I entered slowly and looked around
amazed and astounded at what I found.
Every room was empty but for one,
a bedroom with chair facing towards sun.
Beside the chair was a frame
holding the picture of a girl with no name.
Curiosity got the best of me
so I turned it over and I did see
her name scribbled hastily.
'Janette, my love I give to you
this picture I love to sit and view.'
and then I placed it back.
The house was no longer cold to me
for it housed a loving memory.
I left it right beside the chair
as if the lover still was there.
Upon leaving the bedroom I closed the door
so it would stay as it was before.
My intrusion on this private place
as I exited left a smile on my face.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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For The Grave....
three minutes past dying...
the body still warm.
the cat and the dog sit quietly
by the grieving door.
sunlight drives shadows to corners,
as the sound of low voices.
speak up, sister!
he cannot hear!
yet the damp place in the palm,
maybe the hummingbird outside the window.
a truck hurtles down the street,
with frantic need.
dont call the preacher...
call the farmer, the carpenter,
the garbage collector,
the transient bum!
past the point of kindnesses,
shout 'ha! ', pour a drink...
give the thief an incentive,
unlock the door.
send Jesus an email,
pay the past due light bill...
if poverty's flowers be an abomination...
collect thorns and thistle for the grave!
three minutes past death...
poem by Eric Cockrell
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A Cinematographic Longing
Pranab k c
06/2011
patch of light makes me confused
long dark green the surroundings
but the gold playing a magic marvel
when fog a little tired to triumph over the sight
just look catches that beauty to brood
feet getting flattering to move that dense
heart a bit blistering to touch the patch
silence long that profound cool awaiting
sometimes a far away amity of unborn truth
sometimes a senseless fragrance of smoky mountain
perplexed the reason of birth as the life
mingled with light and shade
if sun is truth why so unseen cold so long
makes all the sip sovereign with mist and myth
never born any legend to kick rightly the drowsiness
if strong is our mistic passion why such cloud
appears random to rub the face of stony erection
galaxy not the cage to escape from divan
but simply a patch of shiny green away
erase all the fathom of shattered solitude
dominates whole heart unmatched with life and death
unmatched drowning sensation from easy to eagerness
for knowing the pit thousands of impossible to penetrate
the end, the origin of origin, the standing temporary tabulation
of beauty, ill-beauty, not-beauty or no any demand
of hanging seeking the charm of metaphor or Mephistofeles
only crickets are unique in revolt to bit the drum
O' the dear of dirty feelings a life is nothing
only to begin another for fog and sunshine
the soul spreads just beside our old tavern
patch of light the ultimate sojourn hallucinates
all the liking for living
(14/06/2011/India)
poem by Pranab K. Chakraborty
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