Boredom compounded with work leads to what follows. Those who've had the lack in life to read the Malazan Book of the Fallen atleast till the 3rd book (there are 10 in all) shall know better the context of my paltry poesy. Those who haven't, well whats there. Cheers.

Of being done (Brukhalian's Prayer)

In the raging glory earned with blood and tears

find my death, a final prayer

to all who watch and reap, but never sow,

for all who live and die beneath their blows;

that all the power, anger and pain

sheltered within these fragile frames

that follow my shadow to the betrayal imminent

live on past us and never faint

for the crime of our deaths, uncommitted yet,

shall weild a vengeance moulded in hate.

Let us march to our deaths then, old friends and new.

Let the crime be complete, and a hero rise anew.

A hero with no song, no place beneath the sun,

but just a man, not dead, for he’s not yet done.

Back to the cradle

Got my hands on some old Mohiner songs. I had always been fond of Mohin's material. Especially because the youngest of Mohin's horses (the band being named Mohiner Ghoraguli literally translating to mean Mohin's Horses) Mr. Abraham Mazumdar was my music teacher at school and a close friend of the family. Further the band, despite performing in obscurity right through its career in the 1970s, was arguably singlehandedly responsible for the splurge of Bangla Rock bands and artists that came to fore during the late eighties and early nineties and is an important part of the history of modern Bengali popular music.

Last night I heard the song Tomay Dilam after an eternity. I had almost forgotten it even existed. Unlike most Mohin fans, I prefer this vocal harmony and keyboard driven number over their more renowned hits such as Bhalobashi, Prithibi and Ruksana. This seems to me to be a melancholic love song to the Calcuttan in general. Its a beautiful song and I wish I could put up the song itself, but being the technological retard that I am I haven't figured out how to do that yet. In any case it isn't mine to put up.

So instead I got down to translating it. My case is hindered by my poor grasp on the English language and an even poorer understanding of my own mother tongue (I'm glad blogs don't require mandatory pictures of its administrators for I'd rather no one saw my face). Albeit the same, I hope I am able to atleast give the reader a hint of the beauty and the mellow despair in this song and do justice to its eloquent wordplay in the Bengali language. It is a sad and beautiful song that left me awake till late last night.

Tomay Dilam (I give to you)

In the city’s warmest day

of tar fueled sunlight,

a breath of rain

I give to you today.

What else could I give?

Them old rallies,

the rows of them old trams,

the balloon store on the sidewalk

whose thread knotted reds & whites

are my discordant city’s Rhododendron

I give to you today.

What else is there in the late night neon lights,

that illuminate these restaurants.

The highest roof of the tallest building

I give to you today.

I cannot give

the smell of grass, flowers and rice fields,

two palmfuls of softness.

Instead the silent reassurance of the

slightly leaking burnt diesel,

I give to you today.

All the images of the city’s verse

I give to you today.

[I give to you today] x 3

Original Lyrics by the Late Gautam Chattopadhyay

Its the weather today. It is killing me to be indoors, and I still got 3-4 hours to go. But no one said I've got to spend them being productive, hence....

In the winter light

make me a picture, of me

in a boat floating out to the sea.

Rile up a storm

for me to fight, to be

what I am and what I’m meant to be.

Soak me wet in

the cold tyrant waves, so I

may feel alive for a little while.

Do not be shy

to not throw me a line, for I

cannot dream of another way to die.

Pardon my trespasses for I am no poet.

Also today is a friend's birthday. So Happy Birthday L! Get chained and live free.

Been reading a lot of fantasy lately. Nearly done with the final published book of the series A Song of Ice and Fire by George RR Martin. Its soo bad I loove it. Helps me dream every tired night. Reminds me what a slut I am for cheap thrills. Inspired me to write a poem (ooooh), or try to atleast.

Ygritte’s Last Song
Bastard born in a secret
lose that shadow cloak you wear so heavy.
Come to me in a wildling dream
where no walls guard the freedom of the free.
Winter has come,
the pack will survive while the lone wolf dies.
Find the luck you need kissed by fire
your honour can wait, now warmth must suffice.
Turncloak, twice
don't turn in what you stole with death.
It is yours to keep, not to lose
so tame your spurs and forget your fate.
Morning breaks and
we war till the end, for us no bard shall sing.
But I’ll sing to you with your arrow in my chest
You know nothing Jon Snow, you know nothing.

In other news Wayne Rooney hit the net four times to dethrone Arsenal and more importantly tommorrow is a holiday.

Blues for my Job

Oh I wake up in the morning, and I
prepare to get to you.
I don’t wanna wake up daarlin’,
but you know I gotta feed me too.

Oh ever since I met you baby, I’ve been
crying to let you go.
You make everyday a Monday baby,
and Sunday’s too short to know.

Baby why do you treat me like this, why
bore me the way you do.
You got them nagging habits honey,

I got them back breaking blues.

---------------

Yes I'm bored. Yes I'm jobless at work. But just for the record I don't hate my job. I think I just rue the fact that I'm not talented enough to not need one. And absolving the same in view of the overwhelming mediocrity surrounding oneself can't be the answer now, can it?

Revival of the lousy poet

To my oldest friend, TJ Eckleburg who constantly saves me from being completely hunted, no matter how much I might desire it myself. A tea awaits you at Vien. The following is what happens when I get drunk and follow your wishes. You asked for it, bastard guy.

travellers II

with stunted breath we spoke and climed mountains
and held our fears close to our hearts,
we laughed and cried and cried and laughed
every moment making a new start.
failing again, and again to memory; lord bless them
guitar strings that brought us some mirth
when there was none, not here and not in your heart
every moment falling a little apart.

the mountains are climed, the words are spoken
with true love and hate now we paint our world.
i cut, rape, lose, scream, break the glass of your window and sing
to you a million times.
silently.
you hear, you know, you smile sometimes and catch that
cab back to the airport leaving that broken pane,
broken to my world.

where will we try old friend, to meet and curse each other again?
what time of the day would you say then,
that you hate me and i should hate you back?
when will we find another mountain to climb,
when all we are left with is familiarity from another time?
where will you touch me then, would you dare to?
and what would you say, if i wished to slit your throat,
and asked you for one last smile on your way out?

I go back to work tommorrow, the beginning of another week of blissfull numbness. Cheers.