On Murder

A blade can blot,

out of eyes, the sun...

A murderer is just

God with a gun...

A pound of flesh,

a debt to release,

God is in the fangs

of the wolf to the geese.

A cruel divinity

surely this,

this urge to kill,

murder is but

the brother of

free will.

Anirban Kapil Baishya (24/2/2012)

To Night

Night, my armour,

my sweet, dark cloud—

salvation from

empty eyes, darkness

my shroud.

This body,

soul entrapped

in flesh, divine

deceit, you hide—

lingering somewhere

between, the barbed

divide.

Night, my lover,

my promise

of play—night,

deliverance from

the benumbing skin

of the day.

Anirban Kapil Baishya (21/2/2012)

Loco

"Canvas is dead",

i told me the

other day.

"No, an exorcism

is all it needs",

said he to me.

Anirban Kapil Baishya (11/2/2012)

Window

If time could be in a vial

stored, the dust of memories,

of lips adored...etched in

the mind, like a photograph,

the window without a wall

is only half...

The shoe must try, the elusive

foot to find...the

spectacle without the eye

is forever blind.

Memory of your lips, a photograph...

Window I, wall-less am half.

To you then,this silent serenade,

if love is satin, then parting a blade.

Anirban Kapil Baishya (5/2/2012)

i live in my flesh

Pry open the

ribcage,the

hinges to the

door of the heart, I

want to see what is

inside of me...

Landscape of my

soul, tethered in

bone and blood, an

idea made flesh.

The body is

just the mirror

for what i feel.

Anirban Kapil Baishya(22/1/2012)

i don't know what to name this poem

There is a spark,

'tis not a fire still.

The cup is dry yet,

waiting for wine to fill.

The seed's been sowed,

How is there love, otherwise?

The flower will bloom like,

The desire 'tween my thighs.

The spark can be a fire still,

Burning brighter than, the light of day—

The soul is frenzied but when, the heart

will rest, the legs will find their way.

The spark can be a fire still,

The spark will be a fire still...

Anirban Kapil Baishya(16/1/2012)

i live on Your wall

i live on

Your wall,

a hanging man

in the middle

of a tunnel eye,

a face, fragmented,

black to the core.

i live on Your wall,

a dying fish, or a

burst of colour

that the centre

cannot hold.

They live on

my wall, a

stream of photographs

on my sea of faces.

i live on my

wall, a peeping

man staring at me

when i sleep.

Anirban Kapil Baishya (15/1/2012)