The Way Women Touch Me…It’s Flowertalk

We had foretalk already. It’s now Flowertalk.

…just think about it!


[and listen to my recording of the Tagore song I posted below, in case you have any plans to translate his tunes…i tried and failed.]


Could it be that I needed to construct the whole structure by deconstructing my prose into poetry? I guess I could do it — with some major effort. Question is, who’d read it? Especially when my poetry is so pathetically erroneous and unsophisticated…just like me?

Instead, we might do this, with your permission (I’m learning manners here). I’ll write a few lines in prose, and then interject with a few lines of poetry. How about it? It’s almost as if I’m describing my experiences with my women…and their touches…as if they came sporadically into my prosaic life…like a few brief, precious, fragrant floral poetic phrases…and the unreal poetry made my stoic mundane unmentionworthy existence worth keeping. It’s a metaphor.

Pretty poetic, right? Well, for me, it is. But isn’t it true that many people have said the same thing about their women — more or less exactly the same way I just did? So, who’s going to bother to read about my poetic flashes? Where are my flowers different from their flowers?

Now, I’m already digressing even before beginning. Friends have already warned me about my longwinded English, unnecessary digressions, and use of complex sentences (I just did one, fyi). They have told me that no way I could woo even a single woman with such morose verbose overdose of unexciting prose.

One of them even called my writing about women “wimpy.”

(I was heartbroken).

They said just because it’s red with emotion doesn’t make it all that rose. (Did you get that poetry yet?…like…prose and rose?)

Would you believe? Even after they said it — and these are friends that would only come along once in a light year — I still fell into that stupid trap, made complex sentences to a point that everybody (myself included) found it…well…too complex…and channel-switching?

Therefore, without any further ado, I shall describe my flowers…I mean…women.

So, ahem. If I could describe my experiences with women in one single [and simple] sentence, it’s this. They’ve all been like flowers that would appear out of nowhere, form buds, create a lot of excitement and possibilities, and then…

…then you have to wait until they decide when to open up. You’re totally at their mercy. You surrender to their wish. If you touch the bud, it might just drop off, or turn pale, and wither. If you force it to open, it will definitely die. You must let it open up to you at its own pace…its own whims…and wait for it.

And then, it might as well do it. And if it does…and when it does…you shall feel yourself lucky that you lived that moment. Thousand stars lighten up the sky in an instant; thousand suns explode.

At that moment, even the most unpoetic you would find yourself writing a few lines of beautiful verse.

But one secret…chances are…it might decide to open at a time when you’re not looking…when you’re indifferent, unmindful…maybe, you’ve practically given up on it…or when you’re sad and depressed that it aroused your senses so much and then turned you down…even when you were so eagerly and patiently waiting for that magic moment to happen…

You never complain. If it happens that way, let it happen that way. Because the end result is so glorious, fantastic, celestial.

You can now touch your flower. You can now take it in your hand, You can now smell it. She has yielded to you.

You can now kiss her.


Here’s some poetry I promised. But this is real poetry by a world-famous poet. After all that, I decided not to take a chance. Here is Tagore, for you. Bengali, and then English.

The poet already said it what I always wanted to say…to those special women…I mean, to those special flowers.

Here’s to you…flower.

Tumi ektu kebol boste dio kachhe

Amay shudhu khanek tarey

Aji haate amar ja kichhu kaaj achhe

Ami saango korbo porey


let me sit, please

would you, by your side

only for a little

and I shall will wait

to finish my chores

mundane, brittle


Na chahile tomar mukhapaane

Hriday amar biraam nahi jaane

Kaajer majhe ghurey beRai jato

Phiri kulhara sagorey


true, if I miss

but lookin’ in your eyes

my heart won’t pause


in midst o’ my chores

will wander around

by oceans abound

bereft of cause


Basanto aj ucchhaashe nisshashe

Elo amar batayane

Alos bhramor gunjariye othey

Phere kunjero prangane


spring’s arrived

at my flung-open bay

with fanfare, breeze

honeybees buzz

’bout ‘n around

lush garden and trees


Ajke shudhu ekantey aseen

Chokhe chokhe cheye thakar din

Ajke jiban-samarpaner gaan gabo

Nirab abasorey


’tis time for us two

only me and you

I look in your eyes

you look in mine too


and ’tis time to sing a song

the submission song

from a heart to a heart

all quiet and long


Sincerely Writing,


Brooklyn, New York

The Poet of All Poets