parjanyasen.blogspot.com

Palimpsests

Saturday, June 7, 2014. Song of the Banshee. As the moon rose within her womb. She covered her face. Tears that could give birth. To babies with ten heads—. Clutched in each paw. A wail arose from her self. A lullaby that had once put. Many would join,. They would sing and rejoice—. A chorus of sirens,. Each with an unborn baby. The babies have grown up—. Men with innocent stubbles. They have fallen silent—. Afraid of the melody,. Teeming with the coldness of memory. And the warmth of abandon. Should I c...

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Palimpsests | parjanyasen.blogspot.com Reviews

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Saturday, June 7, 2014. Song of the Banshee. As the moon rose within her womb. She covered her face. Tears that could give birth. To babies with ten heads—. Clutched in each paw. A wail arose from her self. A lullaby that had once put. Many would join,. They would sing and rejoice—. A chorus of sirens,. Each with an unborn baby. The babies have grown up—. Men with innocent stubbles. They have fallen silent—. Afraid of the melody,. Teeming with the coldness of memory. And the warmth of abandon. Should I c...

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Palimpsests | parjanyasen.blogspot.com Reviews

https://parjanyasen.blogspot.com

Saturday, June 7, 2014. Song of the Banshee. As the moon rose within her womb. She covered her face. Tears that could give birth. To babies with ten heads—. Clutched in each paw. A wail arose from her self. A lullaby that had once put. Many would join,. They would sing and rejoice—. A chorus of sirens,. Each with an unborn baby. The babies have grown up—. Men with innocent stubbles. They have fallen silent—. Afraid of the melody,. Teeming with the coldness of memory. And the warmth of abandon. Should I c...

INTERNAL PAGES

parjanyasen.blogspot.com

1

Palimpsests: May 2009

http://parjanyasen.blogspot.com/2009_05_01_archive.html

Monday, May 4, 2009. I slash at ghost wrists. You stick like glue. I scored a foul. And the ball hit my head. You pin me down, still. Like turtles on the receding wave. Opening up to let you leave. Links to this post. Subscribe to: Posts (Atom). View my complete profile. I slash at ghost wrists Memory bleeds You stick li. There was an error in this gadget. There was an error in this gadget.

2

Palimpsests: February 2014

http://parjanyasen.blogspot.com/2014_02_01_archive.html

Friday, February 28, 2014. Between being and space. On goat's milk and ashes. Links to this post. Subscribe to: Posts (Atom). View my complete profile. Stranded- Between being and space Stranded- For . There was an error in this gadget. There was an error in this gadget.

3

Palimpsests: Ode to a train

http://parjanyasen.blogspot.com/2014/05/ode-to-train.html

Thursday, May 8, 2014. Ode to a train. Post by Sanjay Ghosal—. Good evening train, good evening train;. Took my 'boy'- friend to the hills. Too much rain, too much mist;. Boy' is the one my friend kills. Good morning train, Good morning train;. Bringing back friend to me. All the rain, all the mist;. Now the 'boy' belongs to thee. Post by Author —. The 'boy' died long ago. And distances just seemed to grow. The train carries his frozen frame. As feelings too have lost a name;. Mist outside, rain within.

4

Palimpsests: To Kanchenjungha

http://parjanyasen.blogspot.com/2014/05/to-kanchenjungha.html

Thursday, May 8, 2014. For you could not be seen, you could not be seen. As my eyes strove to find their tear-kin,. For I knew then, as I know now—. That all beauty is meant to die somehow. When my hand reached out and clutched his sleeping frame,. I knew then, too, this love had no name. I smelled his breath, I tasted his woe. Even as my heart dreamed of the golden snow;. I lost my self with each thrust of his weight,. And regained my self in the frozen cold after-sweat. View my complete profile.

5

Palimpsests: Song of the Banshee

http://parjanyasen.blogspot.com/2014/06/song-of-banshee.html

Saturday, June 7, 2014. Song of the Banshee. As the moon rose within her womb. She covered her face. Tears that could give birth. To babies with ten heads—. Clutched in each paw. A wail arose from her self. A lullaby that had once put. Many would join,. They would sing and rejoice—. A chorus of sirens,. Each with an unborn baby. The babies have grown up—. Men with innocent stubbles. They have fallen silent—. Afraid of the melody,. Teeming with the coldness of memory. And the warmth of abandon.

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arjunblogshere.blogspot.com

Love & Illusions: September 2013

http://arjunblogshere.blogspot.com/2013_09_01_archive.html

What can be worse than the complete agony of being in love? Yet what could possibly be a more enriching experience? Some of these entries arise out of the euphoria of first love and the rape of innocence; the rest reflect the musings of a more mature poet: one who is compelled to accept the absurdity of the transient world, but has the courage to romance it nevertheless. At times it is not even poetic. too brutal to be so. But therein lay the catharsis: purgation of life’s follies. Sometimes I need help,.

arjunblogshere.blogspot.com

Love & Illusions: AUTUMN-WINTER 2013

http://arjunblogshere.blogspot.com/2013/10/autumn-winter-2013.html

What can be worse than the complete agony of being in love? Yet what could possibly be a more enriching experience? Some of these entries arise out of the euphoria of first love and the rape of innocence; the rest reflect the musings of a more mature poet: one who is compelled to accept the absurdity of the transient world, but has the courage to romance it nevertheless. At times it is not even poetic. too brutal to be so. But therein lay the catharsis: purgation of life’s follies. When I could be a bird,.

arjunblogshere.blogspot.com

Love & Illusions: RDD

http://arjunblogshere.blogspot.com/2015/02/rdd.html

What can be worse than the complete agony of being in love? Yet what could possibly be a more enriching experience? Some of these entries arise out of the euphoria of first love and the rape of innocence; the rest reflect the musings of a more mature poet: one who is compelled to accept the absurdity of the transient world, but has the courage to romance it nevertheless. At times it is not even poetic. too brutal to be so. But therein lay the catharsis: purgation of life’s follies. You come to my arbour.

arjunblogshere.blogspot.com

Love & Illusions: February 2015

http://arjunblogshere.blogspot.com/2015_02_01_archive.html

What can be worse than the complete agony of being in love? Yet what could possibly be a more enriching experience? Some of these entries arise out of the euphoria of first love and the rape of innocence; the rest reflect the musings of a more mature poet: one who is compelled to accept the absurdity of the transient world, but has the courage to romance it nevertheless. At times it is not even poetic. too brutal to be so. But therein lay the catharsis: purgation of life’s follies. You come to my arbour.

arjunblogshere.blogspot.com

Love & Illusions: February 2013

http://arjunblogshere.blogspot.com/2013_02_01_archive.html

What can be worse than the complete agony of being in love? Yet what could possibly be a more enriching experience? Some of these entries arise out of the euphoria of first love and the rape of innocence; the rest reflect the musings of a more mature poet: one who is compelled to accept the absurdity of the transient world, but has the courage to romance it nevertheless. At times it is not even poetic. too brutal to be so. But therein lay the catharsis: purgation of life’s follies. DEATH OF A GRANDCHILD.

arjunblogshere.blogspot.com

Love & Illusions: MISSING YOU IN BENGALI

http://arjunblogshere.blogspot.com/2010/09/missing-you-in-bengali.html

What can be worse than the complete agony of being in love? Yet what could possibly be a more enriching experience? Some of these entries arise out of the euphoria of first love and the rape of innocence; the rest reflect the musings of a more mature poet: one who is compelled to accept the absurdity of the transient world, but has the courage to romance it nevertheless. At times it is not even poetic. too brutal to be so. But therein lay the catharsis: purgation of life’s follies. MISSING YOU IN BENGALI.

arjunblogshere.blogspot.com

Love & Illusions: September 2012

http://arjunblogshere.blogspot.com/2012_09_01_archive.html

What can be worse than the complete agony of being in love? Yet what could possibly be a more enriching experience? Some of these entries arise out of the euphoria of first love and the rape of innocence; the rest reflect the musings of a more mature poet: one who is compelled to accept the absurdity of the transient world, but has the courage to romance it nevertheless. At times it is not even poetic. too brutal to be so. But therein lay the catharsis: purgation of life’s follies. Not knowing for sure.

arjunblogshere.blogspot.com

Love & Illusions: Planet Romeo

http://arjunblogshere.blogspot.com/2011/07/planet-romeo.html

What can be worse than the complete agony of being in love? Yet what could possibly be a more enriching experience? Some of these entries arise out of the euphoria of first love and the rape of innocence; the rest reflect the musings of a more mature poet: one who is compelled to accept the absurdity of the transient world, but has the courage to romance it nevertheless. At times it is not even poetic. too brutal to be so. But therein lay the catharsis: purgation of life’s follies. My mucus past compare.

arjunblogshere.blogspot.com

Love & Illusions: LET IT RAIN

http://arjunblogshere.blogspot.com/2012/09/let-it-rain.html

What can be worse than the complete agony of being in love? Yet what could possibly be a more enriching experience? Some of these entries arise out of the euphoria of first love and the rape of innocence; the rest reflect the musings of a more mature poet: one who is compelled to accept the absurdity of the transient world, but has the courage to romance it nevertheless. At times it is not even poetic. too brutal to be so. But therein lay the catharsis: purgation of life’s follies. Not knowing for sure.

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Palimpsests

Saturday, June 7, 2014. Song of the Banshee. As the moon rose within her womb. She covered her face. Tears that could give birth. To babies with ten heads—. Clutched in each paw. A wail arose from her self. A lullaby that had once put. Many would join,. They would sing and rejoice—. A chorus of sirens,. Each with an unborn baby. The babies have grown up—. Men with innocent stubbles. They have fallen silent—. Afraid of the melody,. Teeming with the coldness of memory. And the warmth of abandon. Should I c...

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