coming of age in Oxford

February gives way to March  slinking off with stale memories of childhood fun, schoolboy ambitions, hope-fuelled dreams   adulthood lurks at the door, poised to engulf me, I am destitute of place and property.   Nobel Prize winners, future presidents, will relieve themselves easing their bowels, underground in St Giles’ where I curl, foetal-balled, on condensation cubicle tiles    beyond

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O, my Emperor

The original Bengali version, written by Tagore. In English O, my Emperor! How divinely dressed have you come in the realm of my heart, to beat. Millions of Moons and Suns shamefully bow to you, in willing defeat. All pride shatter into pieces, they collapse merrily on the ground, my whole body and mind dances, plays like a Veena*, without

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The junk society

  Leave me in peace from all this morbid stress, where competition has been made the law of laws encouraging all and everyone to beat each other in the universal junk production where the only thing that counts is quantity so that the worst can only win by stifling all the lesser quantities; wherefore we have this junk society, this

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Vulnerability

  No one can escape it, it is always there, a lurking ugly thing, that keeps reminding you of its existence, threatening invariably your life and whole existence: Who shall find it out? When will the whistle blow? There is no one without that secret that will certainly undo him, and that is the only thing to reasonably be afraid

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hip hooray for lockdown

our days are now nameless days our days are now aimless days   we have been gifted to share the timeless life enjoyed by sucklings, ferals and fishes    tuning our minds to receive erased transcendental truths   we are not human ciphers born to dance to chimes of bells workplace hooters, clocks, whistles, calendars’ conformities   we are gardeners,

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To a Bagel

  Little puffy girdling bagel, all lonesome in your see-through cradle, what shall I smear across your navel, peanut butter? Some jam scooped up in a sturdy ladle the size of a putter?   You’re incomplete and yet you fill me fuller than a hotel bill, far more than any wafer will. On the table, jam, in haste, begins to

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