Ones of Twos

It should
begin in twos:
your worlds – for you, upon
a time, until one
is gone.. and
it doesn’t hurt at all..!
as long
as you’ve forgotten
that there’s no longer
one completely familiar
place… you can always… at
any of all times, come ‘home’
to – to complete safety…
and then
it all collapses
and impales you sharper and deeper..!
each time – like drowning again
and again,
in colder
and colder currents
of blinding, pitch-black snow.

   

   

   
Thereafter,
the fullness of the world:
the last
of your first, in the one
remaining other… would,
on another unexceptional day,
disappear..

 

and
you’d find
you’re old overnight
and may have already
become one – yourself.

 

 

From Book IV

Dead Salvage

And soon
I’ll sell the old house
that used to be
our home… but
first I’ve got to get.. his books out..
to save..
his leftover clothes,
his flip-flops, two shoes,
three tables, chairs,
an induction cooker,
an iron trunk, the small TV,
the memories..
and mounted eulogies of our guardians…
the walking stick
he kept
from his father, who
was swallowed there as well.
I think
I’ll burn his
lone bed, the one
where I used to sleep
as a child
betwixt its parents, so
that no one else
touches it!

 

 

From Book IV

The Last of Places

When
his mother died
and I watched them hoist
her large, irresilient frame
upon the pyre,
bare betwixt red sheets,
I was too little
to realize
that she’d never speak to me… again.

  
Then,
when it was time
for his father, and
they did away with
the worn, decrepit shape,
the same way
they had
for his wife, I
understood… that
I’d see them both again..
someday… in a place
we all go upon
our wanting, ashen ends.

  
And…
as I
set fire
to his remains.. the
ruin.. that had become of my father..
I had already
arrived at the deliberation
that mind
cannot outlive
the disorganization of its matter,
that oblivion
is akin
to the restful nothingness
of an eternal, dreamless sleep…
and that
the only place
where we
could all be alive… together…
was in the imprecision
of fading memories.

 

 

From Book IV

The Perfect Blue

The idea
of Paradise, as
a place
where the ideal
is reality… seems
something we’d like
to imagine
as going somewhere
that was dreamed or envisioned,
or once, really was.. immaculate…

   

and some place
we usually know,
can no longer be
as perfect, on arrival
there.

   

   

   

The last time
we saw each other,
we spoke
of his childhood
in a boarding school,
where mornings came before
the sun, at times
before the break of dawn
and then,
there was routine for some
chosen, in clearing dust
from prayer halls, and watering
the stretches of flowers that
lined the grounds, before
the other children
were up.

    

    

    

I assumed
it must have been tiring
to rise so early, each day,
and then do that much work,
to which,
to my surprise,
he said
that he used to enjoy it,
and explained
that the feel
of fresh, open air…
that bathed the body,
and the gleam
of that dim, first light… that
illumined the skies
would allow
his young mind
to be lively! and
free…

   

   

   

It’s difficult
at times, to tell
dreams from reality..
but I know
I asked if he
would like to revisit
those faraway gardens
once again… one
early morning, with me
this time.

   

Or was I..
just waiting
for the next time
I’d see him..
and only dreamed
that I had already
asked..?

   

   

   

Someone told me
that life
is supposed to be
a procession…
of
unbearable passing..
and I claimed that it would’ve
been better
to never have
existed, but once
one does…
there’s too much
to try
to hold near, to simply
go away…
until we bid adieu
to Heaven… that hides
in the impossibility
of complete return
to the elusive fulfillment
of some mysterious places
on this uncaring earth.

 

 

From Book IV

Elitist Listener

Is finding
music
that, for a long
few minutes,
fills
the hollows…
that
one cannot
touch – inside…
enough
of a reason
to stay
alive?

   
There are
many
more important
ones, where
the well-being
of another
becomes
of more
consequence
to you, than your own.

   
Perhaps
a child, for whom
his Dad
gave up his drugs
and
worked hard
to give the delinquent
an education.

   
Or a personal purpose,
as a brilliant and unsuccessful doctor
rereading repurchased books
of Pathology,
to redress
an age neglected,
in the waning hope
of restoring
an out-of-reach laboratory,
and dying
of a heart attack
at forty-nine,
confused.. and alone..
while
the kid, now a man, the
one thing
he wholeheartedly cherished…
was out
making money
somewhere in the big fucking city!

   
For those
who do not believe
in fairy tales
and have seen their share
of futile trial
and cruel death,
it suffices to say
that
they often find
little reason to feel
that reality
was ever directed
toward
anything good,
and… eventually has
no meaning, other
than sadder memories.

   
And
in this capricious state
of the definite
and oncoming nature
of unpredictable
and irrevocable loss..
perhaps,
discovering pointless music
that makes you think
such pointless thoughts,
is as good a reason as any… for
lingering, pathetically, here.

   
For all reason,
in time,
disappears..
in one inescapable vacuum..
and is rendered
unknown,
unknowable,
null
and
void.

   
While the ravages
of mortality
tend
to take the shine
away
from dreams,
it is, or still feels
wrong
to take
one’s own life,
as long
as there are those you’d hurt,
were you
to simply
go away.

   
Someone
had once
asked
my father
what he wanted
his son
to be, when I
grew up.
To this,
the M.D. Pathologist
replied:
“Alive and Happy”
…and that
is what I’ll
try…
to be.

 

 

From Book IV

The Magic Man

Mr Banerjee _Edited

July 13.
It’s already
been
a month, and
today
is still…
your birthday.

   

You know…?

   

for a few
grey weeks,
I’ve been writing
for you.

   

   

   

I never
told you, but
I used to
think, when I
was little, that you
would be the grand nemesis
I would oppose
when I grew up.

   

But
somehow,
as I grew taller
midst the fall of our guardians,
you found
their secret..
and became
their last.

   

And
taught,
by your own example,
that human beings
are capable
of magic… of good… of change.

 

 

 

From Book IV