Neck of a Swan
You stretch like a frail white neck of a swan
in a sweeping curve through my universe—
the enormity of life weighs like an epic between us.
On this earth, we carry our mortal love
till the end when eyes are born, and
in dazzling brilliance, we see how beautiful we are.
The sky has white stretches to mark
where we enter fractured bodies. We hide in blue light.
Immense darkness gives birth to stars.
This pearl trail—have you travelled through me?
Or will we always be? And there is no extinction?
Let illusions be—let this be our last love.
Sometimes, Unforgettable
Sometimes, we meet people briefly
and they become unforgettable.
Like the timeless falling of leaves in autumn,
a faint rustle in the afternoon-courtyard—
a whispering conversation with the earth that lingers.
Sometimes, we enter the vast scorching lands,
and you leave me with undying thirst.
Like the infinite patience of the waves
that search without pause, crest after crest,
breaking against the heart-shore.
Sometimes, a seed of memory sprouts between us
and it consumes all my nights and days.
O’ my beloved, your beautiful face
does not belong to this mortal world!
I light a lamp to the empty and silent night.
Sometimes, you return in my deepest sorrow.
O’ how helpless—
no angst, no grief, not even flow of time, or waiting for.
Only this moment that is still and eternal,
as you become unforgettable for this life.
When The Universe is Full and Bursting
If you have held a piece of straw or a dry twig
by one end of it and lent it to the wind—
You would have felt how fragile it is
how the vulnerability is everywhere,
it enters at the point of touch through your fingertips
and consumes your being in a faint trembling.
The wind too trembles to take what is given to it.
After she turns the last corner
and your eyes can no longer follow her—
That is when the universe is full and bursting.
That is when the universe is empty and giving.
That is when you find the strength to look life in its face,
how beautiful and full it is,
how infinitely beautiful it has always been.
Life After Life – An Unplanned Visit
I enter the dilapidated bungalow on Gurusaday Road,
tracing my childhood—in disbelief—after five decades,
some memories are more fresh and acute than the present!
The cast is still there, and the stage is set perpetually.
Bricks and shades have bruised and scraped their flesh.
The giant Banyan tree roots have spread through them.
In their broken form they have gained new strength,
and have firmly anchored themselves to the ground.
I see Mr. Pires in his striped necktie, frozen in time,
in the school office defined by shattered glass panes.
We are walking in a queue along the corridors
from the assembly to the classroom, in disciplined silence.
You are here as a chance companion.
I am back in my city as a traveller; I will leave again.
You stand with a hand on your hips,
and the other sheltering your squinting eyes,
the sun takes you in the simmering courtyard,
as I look at your ruddy face.
You are curious, and you tell me—
how strange and beautiful this is!
You are patient with my past—this is where it started?
I tell you—this is like life after life,
this is from times when you were not born,
when we did not know we shall come here again.
A random crow, a stray cat, a young, cordial caretaker
visibly amused at my absurd excitement,
a clothesline with a bright, red piece of cloth,
and a medley of sentiments with no home.
There is love after love—wanting to be timeless.
Suddenly, I want us to become bricks and cobblestones,
and be held together by the gnarled Banyan tree roots,
inseparable like stones and their fossils.
Belonging To Many and Countless
The story of my belonging originated long before my birth.
The day I was born, I was given to belong
to many and countless.
I, in fractured parts, was given to—
brown, Kayastha, male, Indian, Asian, Bengali, Hindu…
and to many and countless identities.
I was taught the definitions to solve for my essence,
over the years my story evolved and became more complex.
Till one day, you (of clear eyes) said:
‘We could never become one, because we are different,
and we do not belong to each other.’
By then it was too late—
I had drifted; I had drifted too far away from myself.
I could not recollect my fractured pieces.
A world without boundaries had lips twisted in pain,
or perhaps, it was a smirk of deep satire.
These poems were part of The Poetry Issue 2023, curated by Shireen Quadri. © The Punch Magazine. No part of these should be reproduced anywhere without the prior permission of The Punch Magazine.
More from The Byword
Comments
*Comments will be moderated