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Rites Ghosh Poems
Verbs And Nouns Of Love
Keep these verbs you may require them to bend a steel of wrath- sharp weapons from behind
Rain, Keep Me Lonely
Loneliness, you come to me in my morning varandah and sipping tea when after crushing summer comes first the brave busy shower.
Rain And The Rhyme Of My Mind
Let rain bring back the rhyme from beyond mythical hills: dry stony earth, this page, cracks of my mind full-
My Father Is Something More
I am just forty when my father at seventy-three's duskglow runs with
A Journey Remembered
Milestones of a forlorn road lie wayside under mists and partial shadows behind wintercanvas -
Histories, Their Stories
Between our feet histories stumble and merge- my words today
I Know What It Means To Wait
I would not be tired waiting upon thy gate I would not be tired holding these lilies, until
Desires, Never Complete
Desires, now beautiful, sharp and bold turns or distorts
Kiss Me Different
Kiss me so my lips are left a sqeezed raisin kiss me out and suck juices and hue poured therein.
The Case Of A Concealed Letter
My soul now lies in brown hours like the unravished letter trapped inside a brown envelop.
Tamed my eyes i've tamed my waters gargling water, bursting bubbles that snipped my rest,
Yesterday I told I love you. Previous day I told I love you.
Monsoon clouds are now rising vision. its fantastic is piled up in disharmony, the far-off towers and porches
Regenarate My pen
Dear words, once my playmate too lovely and bold, now drifted so far and slips
Comments about Rites Ghosh
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
Verbs And Nouns Of Love
Keep these verbs
you may require them
to bend a steel of wrath-
sharp weapons from behind
grow flashy: into wounds
they strike certainty of destruction.
Be sure, that I may not come-
not even my surreal shadows
from this portion
of your soft yellow light.
These nouns that once
like a complacent boatman
to steer our way of love-
floated us down in the divine stream-
washed our nights and days,
our burning suns and cloyed moons-
with surfs and salts of life,
see whirl of doom.
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