The Song of the Spring
Across boundaries, you speak like life-giving medicine,
A wall remains, yet, longing to bridge the gap.
I hear, beside the samadhi, humans’ dark flowers bloom.
In our land, flowers abound, symbolizing innocence,
Their fragrance wafts as far as words carry.
Under the tree, someone lies, see,
A stray sunbeam settles on ancient foreheads.
This language dissolves into sentimental drama,
The living murli’s gentle hum departs.
In your eyes, I seek love, a life-giving remedy.
The cries are eerily silent.
Like an empty wedding pavilion,
The ritual offerings whisper on the Sal leaves.
From High Above
From aloft, I see, gradually,
I’m becoming boundless, and so are you.
You’re like me, and I’m like you, and so is that.
This earth is a few curved lines,
Some green and blue lines, a canvas.
No human sounds, anywhere.
Where are the borders, palaces, and regimes?
Where’s literature, books, and nuclear blasts?
From higher still, more human-like, I see
Everything’s infinite, a speck, beyond sight.
From higher and lower still,
No more books remain.
Far away, someone lights a lamp...
All else is endless, silent,
One question emerges, drop by drop:
Astonished, amazed, helpless…
On the Stone
What’s written on the stone?
How much blood stains its surface?
Each letter bears someone’s sorrow.
Is it a love poem? An epitaph?
A character sketch? A song? Poetry?
Or perhaps someone’s daily journal!
Unrecognized script leaves me alone,
A fool before the unknown.
Though I touch you, I know
Your touch remains impossible,
Tears well up in my eyes,
For I, too, long to connect.
Each letter cuts and hacks
At the unfinished lives of men.
Perishable Worship
All flowers in the ephemeral worship are dead,
Yet, during worship, fragrance wafts from the flowers,
As if slowly, petals fall from the flower's body.
I weave garlands with flesh,
The stone or clay deity stands motionless, lifeless,
But gazes unwavering with two stone eyes.
Stone eyes, no tears, no blinking.
Petals fallen, I understand, the deity, too, is dead,
But love remains, a belief nourishing a hopeful tree;
The deity awakens, hence the aroma of offerings in the kitchen...
Dry flowers, worship concluded, deity and body equal.
The Flute Player
I, too, am blinded by Murli’s melody,
Nothing else registers, my eyes filled with light,
Water's flow carries away life's fleeting moments,
I bow down, wondering where the river flows.
How many lives pass by, begging for scraps,
Singing your tune, Shyam, all their lives long?
My heart's corrupted, yet I adore him,
For stories untold, with no ending in sight.
Can you be the rhythm to complete it?
The artist hears the lost melody,
A Vaishnavi carries it in her voice,
I, too, am blinded by his tune.
Walking alone, Mathura disappears into song.
The Hawker’s Call
Sometimes, through the window crack,
The hawker calls out to me,
Though I have little spring to offer,
He summons me, aware.
I open my coffin, hand him glass vases.
With sweetmeats in his mouth, he asks,
“Will you give no more flowers?”
I reopen the coffin, rise,
And head to the south window —
Though I have little spring to offer,
I open the glass vases,
And get struck by lightning in the rice field.
Barren Tree
A leafless tree stands, too, worn out
By spring’s failed promises, its shade
Dried, withered, yet to depart
In the scorching sun.
I, too, nibble on dry hay
Amidst kitchen utensils' clatter
Thinking of the departed souls
Whose faces still linger.
Do I inscribe answers to their questions?
On my parched skin?
Though the wounds have healed,
Blood clots, blood clots...
No sorrow surpasses this, dear
Eat, devour, this funeral feast
This humiliation is unbearable
The mark of oppression on earth.
Tattered Letters
All tides seem to have receded,
As I walk backward, I find you anew,
A shadow descends from the madman's silhouette,
In alleyways, I see Suchitra, the actress,
With incomparable eyes, unlike any other.
Perhaps, beloved, our day begins now,
As the receding tides reveal how far
We've drifted, each with our trunks and suitcases,
Three or four men renting houses in this city.
No village, no country, no lost diary pages,
No unwritten novels.
Have I found what I've lost, or has it found me?
The Final Scene
In the celluloid cinema’s last scene,
A moment freezes, time stands still.
“The End” is written, or “Conclusion”,
As if the story ends here.
The curtain falls.
Harsh light flickers on.
Viewers gaze at each other,
Thinking, “How quickly the story ends.”
Sorrow isn’t just sorrow,
Nor happiness just happiness...
After this, perhaps popcorn or coffee,
Or the body surrendering to sleep.
A movie exists before its start,
And after its end, still...
On the dead white silent screen,
Someone writes an infinite film
In the ledger of emptiness.
The Outsider
Are you that stranger, with a gaze?
Impossible to meet, axe in hand?
Did you come to witness the empty-eyed specter's humiliation?
How did everything become a farce?
I've lost the world's din in the northeast corner,
All that wants to be lost, in a dimly lit home,
A shadowy Martin, weeping nights,
Many nights have passed.
These blind, aimless humans aren't really humans,
They only hiss, like snakes, at insects,
Digging graves, a Hindu in a jackfruit grove,
Inscribed designs remain.
Are you that stranger, lost while breaking questions?
In Tepantar, far away, where Dravidian fireflies
Come to Kolkata to buy tiger's milk?
The Blind Beggar’s Vision
The blind beggar’s form harbours darkness and light,
His eternal friends, dry leaves.
His inner sanctum, a void,
A debt to the Divine, without a mask.
His feelings resemble a wooden staircase,
Melodies resonate within its gaps.
What song does his outstretched hand evoke?
In darkness, it's like a beacon of light.
Many thorns entwine his fate,
A scripture of longing.
Now, in shadows, sketch the blind beggar's gaze,
Eyes sanctified in eternal light.
His delusion paints a scene.
The Girl
The girl is a face, a hand gesture,
Dry flowers in the temple, sunset fades.
Her body covered in dust, like embers,
No job for days, at the field's edge, midnight awakens.
After ages, the last tourism has ended,
No tears remain, no circus calls your name.
Today, this body is a seed of paddy,
A solitary fire burns amidst thorns.
A face, five minutes, many nights.
The dry temple flowers have burned today,
No faith in eternity.
International
In the midst of an international river,
No backward pull, no erosion, only water's law,
Like war days, gunpowder's charred remains float,
Mortality's naked truth.
You sketch villages, map cities on ancient paper,
But nothing lasts; temporary docks are best,
Lighting lamps to float away, a fleeting gesture.
No clock strikes for you, no prayer bell tolls,
A teenager’s fear, with blood-stained flowers in hair,
As if her garments were torn, leaving her bare.
We don’t seek roads or addresses, sir,
My father’s mud hut stays cool in scorching drought.
Every village is named Iraq, understand?
Only America’s grandeur, a mere show.
Kolkata exists beyond its own bounds!
Water’s nature, I grasp, flows afar, touching shores.
Now, anew, dinosaurs invade, seeking hidden treasures.
Life becomes fragile, like riverbank soil.
Comments
*Comments will be moderated
All poems touched my heart
Kuntal Gupta
Feb 10, 2025 at 01:56