Neither below nor above , Natural nature seeks scope , To survive on Instinct’s rope .
The normal in periodic table , Weaves the Necessity’s fable , Here ‘yes’, there ‘no’, runs the tale .
Futile prove all theories of art , For what is the ‘Real’ remains untouched , The Brain bids goodbye , When God rises in the Lotus-bloomed-Heart .
From measure to measure runs the Measure , The awakened vision alone gives the pleasure , Eye, ear, nose, tongue, touch and mind , Turn into the other hidden twin , And the own Identity – the Absolute Normal , Rises as Sun , in Unconscious–Sky(Chid-Akash)
The Non-Dual in the dual takes hold , The Unborn –Ancient –Eternal window , From the apparent Normal finds a flow .
Poet Subrata Ray was born on 27th Januray , 1959 , at village Pakisha ,Nator ,Rajsahi in the Rays family of Pakisha Ray-Estate . The credential ties of his academic career ,-cover ,-a Honors degree in English from University Of Calcutta -followed by two master degrees in English language and literatures . Subrata Ray is a published author of several books from Amazon and Indian publications as ,-A Critical Review On English Poetry ,A Critical Review On History Of English Literature And Language , Gate Ways To The Soul , Sangitanjali ,-etc published by Bani Sansad ,and Nabina ,-Kolkata. Ray’s contributations of poetry to the global net ,-in the different sites ,as ,Academy of American poems , Poetry.com , Poem Hunter , Speaking Tree , www.subrataray.com , are more than 3000 poems , and criticisms on English and American poets , novelists , and dramatists . At present Subrata Ray is The Secretary cum The Headmaster of 12-grade Govt. Sponsored school ,-Moula Netagi Vidyalaya ,-Howrah ,-West Bengal ,India
The Window// (1) Behind the window, when clouds descend down over houses planted into mud, and seeds wake up, clock-hands go back to zero. Cottony fogs veil visions, so we might look inside, then I see a dewy dove carrying
A way to the outer world from inside Is the window – an agent certified; Gloomy, depressed, woeful world Is made happy with a small riptide Which comes to the sight of bide Who live in and try to bestride
Through the window pane I see, A drenched delphinium, A mortal enjoying intoxicating debauchery, An ensign in tatters, A hot blood growing cold in the storming jitters, And me, in the rear view-still “sedentary”. Hushed!!! For the carousel taking away