Wednesday, January 08, 2020

Rain of Protests

It rains for hours
in Delhi​!
The drops,​ young scholars​,
​enlighten all with free will;
​they join forces, 
might above em old men
hurling soggy, blood-stained
papers balls, 
The officers call it Section 144​.
​Sound familiar?​

It rains, relentless,
down on anarchy,
carrying vigour from the sea,
​​free will from the plains
and vision from the hills​;
the unified front,
a weather to break​ barriers
and inhuman statutes.​

The storm ​wash​es​ dirt and grime
from the winter leaves,
​cleanses the leathered
conscience of existence​.​

​It ​washes off masks,
reveals the hidden mob
and their savage tone,​
but let​s​ the blood stains remain​;​
​to ​glow in the glare
​of those ​billion flames
​lit ​for a cause beyond
amendments, acts and atrocity.

It rains for hours
in Delhi!


Saturday, January 04, 2020

Poetic Freedom

I would retire,
with ease, grace and peace
to the farthest ​nook,
if they serve, every day,
slices of plum cake,
and play Christmas vibes all night.

I would move my world,
if they let me write poems
on church walls, pavements,
and on the ​remaining 
one and a half​ ​pillars of Democracy;
red letters strung together
for all to behold, tread on​...​
​Onward toward destiny, 
to the shop window​, any window,
for​ ​a ​taste of ​that ​plum cake​... Freedom!​

​-- Leslie​
Picture Courtesy: Sreetama Bagchi, Goa (2017)

Tuesday, December 24, 2019

Indian Identity Strife

I​ forgot my ID once,
it is a tree now back home,
in my backyard.
... My identification marks,
​birth scars, dots and dotcoms,
are under a blanket
where it hides, 
alongside some books, 
a moral compass, an ethnic passport,
and the Indian constitution.

They await judgement,
for free will is not theirs,
not anymore,
not on these streets.

-- Leslie

Pic: Courtesy DNA

Sunday, March 31, 2019

Peachy Love

​​​​Fresh flowers, moist,
float down,
​a bit after t​​he morning sun
lit up your eyes..​.

The buds reach your lips,
swaying down from their pedestal,
the lone peach tree up the hill​.​
Coerced​ down by the whiff of 
a mint-laced mountain breeze
​- his breath reaches yours​,​
his soul ​touches your lips,
a dance follows,
​serene like a river's flow,
wild like its roar.​​
The solitary Peach tree near The Goat Village Nagtibba (Pic: Sreetama Bagchi)

Sunday, March 24, 2019

Brownian Destiny

​She beholds 'em in awe,
the falling leaves of spring,
the Palash bloom who,
in jest,
tapped her left shoulder;
made her turn right,
towards the right hues of life,
bright red, dreamy yellow.​​

We too,
I sigh and smile,
live our Brownian lives,
swaying with the mystical laws...
Of physics, blessings and fate,
our dreams and destiny.
Pic: Sreetama Bagchi

Thursday, March 21, 2019

Clair de Lune

​To hear the silent,
lonely song of the moon tonight,
I strained my heart,
climbed up the winding stairs
of my creative will,
each step stained with sweat
of the masons who built them.
Wonder if they are alive,
do they climb stairs too,
to try and hear this song I crave.

Silence...
That's what we all get,
even the living masons,
the dead artistes,
after a futile chase.
For what we possess is 
a bit of noise, quite a lot,
which we clang up
living by some mortal algorithm.
Look up above, I plead,
in Clair de Lune
lie our immortal visions, life's rhythm!


Saturday, October 06, 2018

Dust Hound

Look at him, my dog, chase dust.
After all, dust defines us;
has moulded us into
monuments of wonder;
into beings who wander,
seeking taller high-rises,
looking down at the
smallest wonders of the world.
Ashes scatter... Our souls stay, 
fine, earthly, err... dusty!

Look at him, my dog, chase...
In awe, in joy, in angst even!
Masala Baby and I at Lodi Gardens, Delhi (Pic: Sreetama Bagchi)