Poetry or Verse - for better or worse

(this was written in an email on September 9, 2008, in response to a long mail trail between friends, which was taking place in verse)

Bong am I without a doubt, (and thus)
Poet I am; but not a metric one.
At metres I am quite undone
So on verses, count me out.

My "phorte" were metaphors
And it is too late to change the course.
Thus like a ship rather rudderless
I float from one figure to another face.

There were years when Bacchus ruled
And evenings spent in "herbal" haze;
Love and pain had us all fooled
And Poetry had its zenith days.

Now, numbers have me as its slave;
And living in a cushy enclave,
Poetry is just a distant shore
To which I would return no more.

But this was verse, a small mercy,
Which my friends enjoy, I see.
And who knows, some word play,
May keep the shrink away.

I wish I could say that

Between chance and will
I stand still,
Choosing none.
I am all done.
It's time to say goodbye.
Giving up hope, of
Desiring this woman's art
Or that man's scope,
It's time to say goodbye.

Godhuli gogone meghe

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EJWsrqN5TFI


Sometimes the dusk smells like the past that cannot be brought back,
Of a breeze that ruffled your hair and ravaged your heart
After it had a frolicking intercourse with the early monsoon rain.

Sometimes the dusk sounds like the melody you have been waiting for
But never heard;
The tune you continue to look for among all the din of a city in a hurry to go nowhere.

Sometimes the dusk looks like the face that came in your dreams
In a room lit by oil lamps, in a land not very far from your heart,but
Hundred years ago.

Then you realize you haven’t been watching dusk for a very very long time,
And you don’t know if that absence preserved your sanity
Or just left you desolate in an insane world.