Notes from a Marriage

Notes from a Marriage

Chele ke dan dike den.
Phonetics aren’t table talk,

Desktop giggle–when
Android screens
Consider themselves connoisseurs for stenciling cover art
For viewing on the GhoraGari–

Moina:-

Father doesn’t know your name,
Which would be fine if he wasn’t your cousin,
Negotiating exchange,
Though it’s
More a relay,
“Koto hoise?”
Before, being sent,
You are not sent anywhere,
You go home,
And are cooked in-house
By pobitro baburchi, under tomar shashurir wardenship.

-highfalutin philosophizing hurts my ears,
You are an independent woman,
Most likely a post-graduate,
Which might not be true, but the narrative is unhindered,
You can make your own decisions and are with the man you love.
You don’t need Steinem over here to anglicize your thoughts,
And all that ritualistic slaughter shit is just an elaborate filter
For the old guard to make themselves feel relevant, still;
So what if they get a hujur to spit verses,
While the opposing patriarchs put pen to paper,
And what’s the problem, even then,
If the entire press corps starts flashing.

It’s theatre,
Some acquiescence on your part to your emotionally blackmailing ghusti.

So you can live, finally.

Shahed:-

BFF has his insta-filter on,
You may tilt her chin up slightly as to relieve her of her contractual eating disorder, now,
Post-selfie, please do whistle for the porter to evacuate the luggage off the loading bay,
And those tarmac pumpkin carriages wheel, you and your shompotti, to Noakhali,

“biyer pore coaching ta shesh koro” and other such aphorisms.

IDK,ghalib,An Anti-Semite’s firstdefense Shdntb Trudeau

IDK,ghalib,An Anti-Semite’s firstdefense Shdntb Trudeau

There are certain questions shooting through your head while you sit there, And perhaps you have already started reading what i have written for you,

And now those same questions are shooting to the surface, and

I. Is this really poetry?
II. Nazrul is rolling in his grave.
IV. Why is four before three; it remains: this is not obtuse enough.
III. This is shit, if this is poetry, i can do this too.
You can, and you should.
But maybe you aren’t,
Maybe you are,

But not as much as you’d like to,

Why?
that’s where you come in.


 

post script wise, though, i guess i started because i wanted to harpoon various verbose sages, as is youth’s compulsion to do, (also bcoz i like how certain words sound)
but i guess, they were the lion, the camel, and the kid altogether, at once, twice, and when you harpooned one, the other’s came in to shift doubletime, and so,
the literary page of the newspaper of record read “is poetry dead?”
i type again and since i am not marty mcfly,
the headline does not change,
but rather, note: slow, something rather incredible happens,
new talent, joins the prophetic ranks, and now, to the new initiate’s credit, with copious amounts of mental gymnastics, the former son edicts that:-
“our young writers are not breaking the rules, most are just trying to mimic former greats.”
and yeah.
so on, and so on, so on, as zizek, amidst snorting cocaine, would say (convulse?)

Run Stiglitz Run.

Run Stiglitz Run.

Brazilian wheat: unconsummable,Keno?
noshto?
Karon,
Overabundance.

To ki hoise?
Excess gets dumped after the markets reject it,
Ei jonno?
So, you get the rotten ha…
..Ar ki shunbo apnar tekhe
Akhon–

Krishok foshol kate,
Zamidar foshol beche,
Dokandar abar beche,
Kintu,
Foshol na kinle,
Fosholer dam bare,
Krishok halka hoy,
Fosholer dam bare,
Zamidarer bulb jole
Foshol dhakay jay,
Foshol poche jay,
Foshol kome jay,
Fosholer dam bare,
Krishok halka hoy.

Baas. 

da Pujibadi Feedback loop.xoxo