The Fiction Of Dry Leaves
Some one tied anklets on the ankles of the wind
With seductive rings, but that too, of dry leaves.
Some one gets distressed from within
As dry leaves keep piling up.
The tunes of long lost days jingle in microwave.
Racing further and further back some one,
Past his prime, now four-decades old,
Comes to a halt at boyhood days.
Another person reserves rain on the breezy passionate eyes
That too in the blast of storm.
But at the slight touch of a saree’s end
Some one get chocked.
Some one seals the windows and doors
And lie down on the dreary mornings.
And slowly drops to sleep before night-fall—
That is when the dry leaves sob under the steps of wind.
Moonlit-night in Ramu forest
All night I picked up moonlight at the forest of Ramu.
With two adoring hands.
The vast sky filled with magnificent full moon
Under the Nageshwar tree over the secluded grasses
The shadow made amity with moonlight;
Immeasurable mist crept up on the steps
Paints devotion on the bare feet of men,
When your deep sensuous touch permeate
From the root to the stump of Gamari tree,
I feel my existence pulsing through every leaf,
I listen to the known footsteps
In the moonlight, in the shades.
Whole night I gathered moonlight on the beach of my bosom.
When the sounds of falling leaves of rubber forest
Ravished the earth with kisses
I became the lord of all trees and moonlight that night
Some of my friends dragged and undressed the full moon
And looked at the mating of the moon and the sky
While I kept speechless all night with lonely vigil
The azure pain of the sky churned from the ocean.
Zahurul and Kaiser tried to disengage me from moonlight
When I was rapt in measuring the distance
Between each grass of the surrounding hills
Defeat
All the limbs of my body
Are not cooperating at this moment,
But how could I blame you?
At the closing dusk of four decades
All I could pick up is a trace of twilight.
Agonies are now having a skip
On the vast uninhabited panorama within me.
Do you really think this body a marble temple
Flushed with milk-white moonlight?
And perfumed with silky smiling mist?
The charioteer is close at hand
But he merely paints the emptiness
Every vanguard limb of mine
Is forced as the moment to yield up
In this mortal single contest
In this sinister erotic art.
[1] Khurshid Anowar (1948) First book of poems Harinabrita Roader Ciii (1974),