Tonight in the Rain E-Book

Kousik Adhikari

• Herausgeber: BookRix
• Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Beschreibung

What is poetry? Poetry is wish, it is prayer and it is life. This collection includes poems mainly on the salts of life and if there are some sugar coats that often vanish when the life becomes on And ultimately if it is possible why life is called life and if not why love is called love.

In Your Town

I was in your town

Recklessly wandering

Under the scheming shadows of palaces,

Towers, house of moons, evenings of nights,

Grasses, have you seen my footprints?

May I be unseen from balconies?

Behind of the windows, dozing doors,

I have touched all the petals of gardens,

Every corner of titanic roads, shadows cornering the heart of the city,

Every glass of silent busses, sounds,

All wandering telephone booths,

May I be not heard

In those countless webs of

Satanic sounds in your town, moving, fuming in archaic symbols like delights,

Hallo! Dear Silent Bird,

Am I unseen

In your nest?

Leseprobe

kousik Adhikari

Tonight in the Rain

to all my readersBookRix GmbH & Co. KG81371 Munich

Tonight in the Rain

Now I am

Nowadays I feel terribly happy,

In the winter noon, sitting in my bed I can hear the murmur of the drenched leaves, The wind blows.

This winter will leave me happier, It darkly pleases me,

Because I know the past,

Many have to go there

Where none goes before,

And this flat earth is known,

Completely, wisely.

Only the two persons told how far I am Above the un-smart sea level.

I in My Play.

Throughout the night,

I played hide and seek in the yard.

The ghost swans in the archaic melancholy, Decorated

themselves

in

this

condensed

ceremony,

Citing dust, blood and azadirecta leaves,

I have discovered this ghost bed; Often the star comes, sits beside the window, In the mud-clad yard of scented flowers, Inventing lights of novels,

Makes oven for sweet in the drenched yard.

In the dying fire, scorched breasts, Closed thighs, reapers will make her female.

Nowadays the girl boils rice in open hair.

During

In an October afternoon during a walk She meets her strange lover, with his ceremonious gait, While the street walks into meekly spring Does he offer his hand?

Does he search into her eyes that talk like a sparrow or squirrel?

Descending just from a laden tree and barefoot?

October afternoon feels the border that frame Winds’ babbles and torn muscles of breeze It’s no more the rotten game of white and black No more the ice and rock

That she knew after her hands of fire Melt with that ice-cold idiot!

She picks up the thousand slices

That the mirror breaks into while earth rotates in family dance.

Sometimes

Sometimes I happen to be winds of dove, Sometimes a lazy street that never goes Around my brick house, an worn out drain Covered with blue lilies, little wild flowers, Becomes river in July rain.

My father used to stand

With his happy old shawl wrapped up Looking and smiling to the electric pole Standing erect and alone in a silver field, Evening dews

Blinking in cold air, drenching the man Through the wound on his chest.

Breaking

Returning home I shall break words Lie dozing in my laptop. Yet awake In brisk happy hours now when you Bring coffee and your hands

Touching the lips of cup.

Brewing wind sooth the lips

Before I plunge into it like a new-born catfish Smelling your hands to know and devour.

Here

Here

In the rain-soaked room

I tasted your hands