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Murari Sinha

don’t know what should i do, my heart
is over-flown with the heart-attack
of a heart-less fellow

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The Canto Of Begging - V

all long the day i beg

i beg rice pulses oil salt
royal blood

in exchange i also distribute
peace… peace… and peace…

and the horses of the gypsies making
a dip-swimming in the peace-water

in the canto of my begging
holding a whole texture of love
i learn how to be burnt
by the shadow of the trees

i give up all my courage
to book a room in your youth
only for me

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Pouch Of Love@bengali Poetry

Who’s won the muddy-battle
Was yesterday’s politics
My addiction is, actually, to cater
The pouch of love
to develop all vitamins
And all bathrooms
people say you don’t love
the claps of the rats
yet I’ll come down
from the branch of a guava-tree
as a wave-of-shopping-mall
to the lake of your love
now I’ll jump out from this computer screen
to register a kiss on your lips

murari sinha

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Father Of Rain-drops

those
who walk through the full-to-the-brim river
with dusts in their feet
are not so much good people

as being a part of the waves
they are all fundamentalist

all around them there is
far-off water of peace

getting down from the back door
you may hide the talkativeness of your tonsil
in the shower of rain

you may taste
the earning of the march
the morning of the fishes
the mark of the void
and call of the alarmed heart

[...] Read more

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Water Of The Flow-tide

the syllabus of the balcony
continues

the black-blossom just beneath your chick
can’t be extinguished

the waves
that are moving with their own axes
smile to the eyes
to make me more adult

the water of the flow tide
works for the whole day

at the end of the day it carries to home
five grains of the buds of the lotus
to maintain livelihood

the dew-drops
accumulating in the womb of the poetry

[...] Read more

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Lines more lunatic than the sun – 3

just in the middle of the bad luck
I cultivate
some more boutique print

in the accident-prone foot of the kadam-tree
I deploy
a special correspondent of my own

putting my affidavit to the silk-worm
with myself
I’m going to start
bihu-dance
in the juhu-beach
Solo

comes to mind that date…i don’t remember..
when together in the bus-stand
you and me
we were both speechless

[...] Read more

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Salad Poetry & Salsa Dance

…thus riding on a memory-bicycle those people who used to go to pick up dry straws grasses twigs from the daily-payment of the squirrels are neither the husband of anyone nor the wife at the best they may be one page full of must-dos regarding keep-fit practice of one’s health…

around the grazing field of the night-gowns
in course of a long-journey by train one has to cross
many grass-hopper points

one-piece of life is this

in its daily walking to pick up the pebbles of
which is the amplification of what
the bodies of all prose and poems are touched with
by the sunshine by the wind by the rain by the water

it-may-be-for-you afternoon is running

running
is the people after the office-break

running are the broken people

[...] Read more

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