Rana Bose has written and performed hundreds of poems, in the Montreal writing and poetry scene. Currently he has settled into what he considers as an absurdist genre.

I Shot a .38   

November 8, 2006/Jan 2018 Rana Bose

(or Skylight phobia) Version 2

I shot a 38 through the skylight

A neat hole, no cobweb

left behind.

Just an accident! I said,

No tension, no threat!

The cartouche,

Rose steep, parabolic!


Reached its pungent peak,

1500 yards up,

Climbed down, slowly

passed a gaggle of geese,

headed south,


Look, I said,


Taking the cue,

From VP Gore,

who I’d just seen,

the day before,

On a group discount

at the Paramount.

It hit a neighbour’s clothes line

Flipped clumsy,

Resting gently

In the pocket of a kitchen bib,

used deftly,

by Ms. Turcotte,

who worked in forensics,

for a company,

She thought,

Could be basis

For a series, dark,


Called CSI, Parc!

Yes, Parc!

That rue they called Bourassa,

for a week, only.

She spied the hole in the skylight

With a telescopic sight

Made in Italy,

Calculated the impact and velocity

And determined me to be guilty.

She invited me for dinner

Gracious! I said,

But, dubious, mos def’ly.

She made carbonara, horribly,

And pastry, that was pasty

Crusty and oily.

I shuddered mildly

at her hospi-tality.

The blue neon lights,

the quivering maroon lips,

Was brand CSI.

Incredible! I said to her,

Feigning total intrigue.

I found the errant cartouche,

Sitting delinquent,

in an Akhavan sack,

And when she turned her back

I lifted it promptly,

Holding the 38 to her head.

I’m taking my cartridge back. Immediately! I said.

No trace!

She agreed politely

And I left quietly

Knowing she would,

Study my saliva on a plate,

For DNA, left behind.

Traces of skylight phobia,

in the ancestral blood

of my émigré utopia,

My parents arrived

in the dead of night,

in a boat from Sri Lanka.

Cosmology of Beat     

July 30, 2005/Nov 2008  Rana Bose

(Beat waits for a revolutionary turn of events)

In the cosmology of beat

There are cars and roads

And curling smoke

Rising from black and grey,

Like Still-shots!

Still Shots of a village messiah,

Standing slouched,

Spouting slowly

On Wooster and Bleeker,


Mumbling Sanskrit slokas,

Like Leroi Amiri Baraka,

A Lone gunfighter,

Pensive, in a loft up there,

Leans against a piano

That weeps and faints,

That weeps and faints

As he begins to recite,

The tale of his baptism by bop,

in a blackandwhite space.

In the cosmology of beat,

There are black steel stairs below

And there is the twist,

At the end of the martini,

Which sulks,

At the bottom

Of the glassy pit, empty.

In the Cosmology of Beat

The  mind sits

Armed only

With a swizzle stick

Swirling the dust

From  the Buddhist tantra

That make the cosmos

Sound like physics

gone to shit.

In the cosmology of beat

There is hope,

That the hum and the swirl,

And the chance that

A sound will emerge

and bulbs will sway

And faces will turn,

In corridors

Where whispers and chants

Once did reverberate.

In the cosmology of beat,

It is said that

Beats will come

In technicolour,

in ekta fuckachrome

beats from a bongo, a harp

a piano

and bo-beep

from a sax on the edge of the metro

that will tunnel down

and take you away

in a whoosh, instead of an om!

I Want Winter


At this point I want winter back.

I want the mist above the snow on a river below a bridge.

And nothing else.

I want a lone piano player on a pier

whose end can’t be seen.

I want him to play single notes on a long bridge

with one note for one child

and nothing else.

I want the end of this summer of blood

Of colors, banners, grimaces, anger,

Of coiled, hissing vipers

Spitting on friends

Who stand up alone,

Against militia on 12.5 billion dole.

I want the mirth, the couches with beer,

the lawless in their patio, on a hilltop cheering,

foaming, darting around,

I want them Gone.

I want winter and nothing else.

I want an endless pier, a bridge,

A piano player, a hammer for a finger

playing one note for one child

And nothing else.


June 2000

Pages dont turn till flipped,
Sighs dont’ heave, lips quiver first.
Leaves in the sky, flagpole in the mist,
tremble, waft, sail, drift, stutter
to rest at your feet.

I’ve sensed this dilemma,
as you sipped my wine,
sitting on a metaphor,
that was not mine,
that whatever you gave
was only for a time,
and not forever.

Man on a Rocking Chair in San Juan, May 2018

In San Juan I found a man,

rocking on his balcony,

the floors creaked,

the glaze in the gaze,

a daffodil stem

hanging from his lips.

I asked him,

was he truly,

An Independentiste?

He shot me a glance,

red in the eyes,

stopped his rocking,

spat in a can,

just to say

that for now,

all he wanted,

was his libertad,

a free man, with free choice,

that’s it, that’s all!

¿Entendí para nada?

In an ice-bound heaven,

the dream had been


hung from a hook,

some years ago,

adjourned, deferred,

a concerto in repose.

An orchestra,

with bows frozen,

icicles hanging.

An epic,

with faces caught,

mouths open,

in a moment of despair,

A la prochaine!

With a tilt of the head.

As tears flowed,

it became a still shot

an interim movement

an opus for all.

But, here, in the alps,

in a village called D,

where the snow drifts

where pin-striped bellies

shake, vibrate,

sniggers abound,

decisions count.

GDP per capita goes Y-ways,


Growth and debt goes X-ways,


numbered accounts

And interest rates,

Z-ways, fixed.

No balconies,

no rocking chairs,

in this castle regal,

no one chews tabac,

limos drive in and out

tinted windows and

shadows inside.

Independence, my friend,

is like Capital sans Labour,

a flippant issue, perhaps,

but worth a note!

that sovereignty today,

Ça n’existe pas.

The polished floors don’t creak,

the daffodils don’t weep

“the wind whispers Mary,

after all the jacks are in their


And the clowns have all gone

to bed, “

Jimi says, so softly,

“There is nothing to sweep away,

As everything is already swept.”

The man from San Juan,

with the daffodil stem,

hanging from his lips,

the balcony creaks,

The chair rocks,

No man can be seen.