POEMS FROM MY FIRST BOOK - IN THE HOUSE NEXT DOOR

These poems are taken from my first book of poems IN THE HOUSE NEXT DOOR, published from Writers' Workshop, Kolkata.


THE BIOGRAPHY OF A SONG LEFT WOUNDED


The river made a circuit of the day,
the sound of birds, beasts and clashing cymbals
the giving way of breaths to a beggar called Life
then the flowers of humanizing rain
the love of the Lord, the pleasure of pain.

But there are some trees standing as yet in darkened orchards -
Orchards made when Eden was young,
before the gates closed forever with a fiery clang.
These trees even now live, grow and flower;
these trees - away from the unhappy hour.

We were talking aloud when I became the river.
Across my huge, bony, wrecked heart
wreaking havoc on my senses
and yours,I flowed about.
And across this land of many hued dreams
this land of daya, of damyata, of vairagya and of santih
I flowed away, floated away
till all fallen ones began an earnest prayer;
and I, with daya, entered the waterpot of the one who never came back.

The yellow stretching lines and in the middle a blinding fire,
all the while a busy flurry of patterns turning into figures slowly,
slowlyand then the dance of the nine triangles.
In the hurtling dance came the colours.
In red came knowledge.
In yellow came darkness, silence, calm and all things unknown
together fused to make an Eye, all-seeing, all-discerning.
In the gardens, the bursting of senses and of light -
And all the while,into the vast endless Sea
I, the river never born, never made, ever Living -
ran into in mute delight.


IN THE HOUSE NEXT DOOR


In this room there is a single window
which looks out on a huge garden
which has no flowers to possess
no roses to love and be hated for.

In the house next door
they are having a party.
In the house next door,
someone’s come visiting
with lots of laughter
and good old wine.

They have forgotten all about me
this room and this window calling out to life
but life does not recall it.
In the house next door,
they are making hay
while there is still sunshine
and laughter and coffee with fruit cake.

They are not aware that someone walks outside
waiting for a glimpse of the merry window.
The garden is silent in the evening calm
while cars sit gleaming on the tarmac
between the houses and the road.

The garden meditates
on what would be the best way
to feel silent and at peace.
In the house next door
they who are having the party
have forgotten this room of a window.

In the house next door they are busy
busying themselves over flowers
and place settingsand mellowed mulled wine
and some tea of course.
I do not care and neither does the garden,
silent and meditative.
For to be lost is to be at peace with everything.


TO BOROBOKRO – IT DOES NOT HAVE A SEA


Ancient coins, ancient fishes
ancient currents that overflow
broken bridges, only waiting
for the queen with a sword
who never came back.

Twisting turning knots and boats
pullulating heart streaming skies
sun and moon and tears of dew
widows beating paper breasts
singing loudly singsong voices
Bring home the children, river wise.

Who knows how the river breathes –
in ones or twos or regular ham-sah.
Someone anxious for a child
ate a floating dead banyan leaf
and sprang Borobokro from the spit.

Ancient river, bloodied banks
banks where grew the Third Species
theirs to love, theirs to hate
theirs to know and forget even
stories and legends of a grey woman -
one-eyed matron in the gods’ chamber
dancing Sapphic for a clutter of bones.

Someone waits on the far-off bridge
that spans and shrouds you, cowering river.
And though it breaks its heart to do so
yet midnights are the time to love in peace
with moons above and you beneath.