LoC | Day 09 | #NaPoWriMo

Betwixt my soul's dire yearning
and a mind that cannot let go,
you preside like the bewitching Kashmir.

This savage battle of possession
though depleting my existence,
it is at the line of conscience
that I contine to bleed for you.

© Sobhan

Pacific of Desire | Day 08 | #NaPoWriMo

With a wink,

you let the

robe slip from

your shoulders.

And I gape

at a sparkling

bead of water,

furrowing down

your seashore back.

On me you

slowly bend,

inching forward

on toes.

Your oval dunes,

moist in their

silk cups, hang

in my face.

I let my

hand inside

your thong.

In your dark

traingle, my

fingers tip over

a round wet

pearl and make

you pant

with parted lips.

You stick my

face in the

heat of your

breasts;

and urge.

I close my

eyes and come

crashing in

waves on your

naked shore.

© Sobhan

শুভ নববর্ষ | Day 07 | #NaPoWriMo

The new year

sevai simmers

on the flame.

Sweet aroma

of milk thickening

in the pan, juiced

with raisins and

nuts, overhangs

the house.

A singing

procession of

men and women

drift through

the cypress shadows.

In their chorus

rings Tagore's

songs, welcoming

Boisakh, the first

summer month.

Conch shells

are blown.

Its echo thinned

by a splitting

wind, as Bengal

wakes to merrry

by the banks

of Ganges.

A pink strand of

the rising sun slants

through the skylight.

The milk is now

settled in the pan,

as I look for you.

Wouldn't you come

and check the sugar

in our new beginnings?

© Sobhan

Falling Skies | Day 06 | #NaPoWriMo

To my new lodging,

I have finally moved.

And oozing from

the mauve colored

walls is a dank odour

of drying paint.

Wafting invisibly, like

heat from asphalt on

blazing summer days.

Its rancid stench

nooses my breath,

and stirs my guts.

So unlike the easy air

homes always wear.

In my duffel

I have carried the

lavender air-freshener.

Its whiff, I remember,

you loved in our room -

hanging,

textured with light,

where we snuggled

close in a sheet,

and watched

your relaxed eyes

close, sedated by

the perfumed air.

I spray it here

all over again,

into the dark

toxic air.

Its aerosol mist

hangs for a whie,

and then, like a

pensive garden breeze

climbing to rooms,

renders my living

with familiar touches

of a cherished past.

Wait in the air, oh love!

Wait for me to sleep.

Before you part

through the window

into the violet

night sky, and

the constellation crumbles

upon my reverie,

into decayed petals

of a love dead

in my heart.

© Sobhan

To Mothers | Day 05 | #NaPoWriMo

This era of readymade woollens
easily available in myriads of varieties,
like friendship on the internet one click away,
had put our mother's needles out of use.

Still whenever a button breaks
from the plackets of my new era shirts,
it is to my mother that I retort.
From her old sewing box
she picks out spools of thread
and selects needles,
closing our ripped hearts
with gentleness and affection,
every time our new age loves
turned us to tears.

© Sobhan