Here the shadows of your language

dance on each page I read
a raucous hawker finds new means
to sell outside on the street
the ceiling fan’s mirrored at the edge
of broken glass, the newsfeed
still and frozen on the screens
winter’s coming to an end
a season draws to a dazzling point
but nothing else begins

 

your hands the way they were

before they got cross-thatched with disease
your parched-earth heels strike the floor
oblivious to all defeat
the terrazzo’s chipped, indistinct colours,
worn divider strips, stiffened debilities;
rusty, weak hinges on open doors;
winter’s crumbling to an end
a season ducks to a frazzled point
but nothing else begins

 

there’s talk on the ledges of buildings

that you and I can’t understand
there’s no harm though in keeping ears pinned
while I read the shadow-dance
urban pigeons beat their wings
your house is quieter than we planned
just hawker-calls threaded on the winds;
winter’s stumbling to an end
a season drains to a senseless point
but nothing else begins

 

the radio tunes that I’d heard once

are no longer turned up at dawn
maybe it’s broken, or there’s a difference
in the music that comes on
your lobes hang heavy, a little misshapen
your senses a little withdrawn
your love’s stilled to a jangling silence;
winter’s fumbling to an end
a season clots to a clenched, tight point
but nothing else begins

 

love and anguish both masked easy

and pasts dance crisp on pages
your magazines are fragile, paper thin,
their editorials strange and dated
but flipping the corners keeps hands busy
and empties all mindspaces
of love that is, and can’t be, sanguine;
winter’s rustling to an end
a season falls to a tattooed point
but nothing else begins



Shared for OLN @ dVerse








© 2013 Nilanjana Bose

 

Storming off

 

 

Shut the door gently behind you

as you leave, I shall keep
wicks and eyebrows trimmed
and let them speak
for themselves.  The year froths
sour and green,
it has nowhere to go
except where it’s been.
Except where it’s been.

 

Pluck me a few of my minds

with your own handsome hook
out of carefully thinned air
come back to a thickened loving
smoked into my hair.
Love is still tart and green
and it’s got everywhere to go
except where it’s been.
Except where it’s been.



Shared at dVerse, with wishes for all those who are braving storms tonight to come through them safe.

Autumn, back home

Roasted groundnuts in their shells;

busy, panicking squirrels
running up and down the old banyan tree;
far away, behind the temple
drummers beat a tattoo to signal
the coming worship of Durga and Navaratri.
 

The wind’s a shade more poignant
the light takes a different slant
the grasses wear white feathers in their caps
in the sky the first migrant
cranes fly in from some distant
lands with their unerring route-maps.

 

All day long the scythes
in rhythmic fall and rise
harvest the kharif crops in the fields
the sheaves and bales are tied
and stacked up on the side
and the farmer comes to measure up the yields.

 

The smell of charcoal smoke

from the chulas of simple folk
hangs a pall over the city and the slum.
Young girls’ dupattas evoke
the colours of dried leaf stalks
the fiesta of detachment that is autumn.

 

And then one moonless night
the golden flicker of lamplight
throws soft shadows on courtyards and doorsills
fireworks burn bright
and pop to children’s delight
over the banyans, around the sacred basils.

 

Seasons come and pass each year

and I may be sitting here
far away from my land, somewhat homesick,
but the images remain clear
the whole sharp atmosphere
the fun and the pain both sweetly nostalgic.

 

Quick explanation of Indian terms used

 

Navaratri – a major Hindu festival celebrated in autumn

Kharif – means autumn in Arabic, refers to the second cropping season

Chula – stove, usually a clay stove burning wood, coal, or animal dung

Dupatta – a shawl type garment used by women

The Indian festival of lamps, Diwali, is also celebrated on a moonless autumn night


Linked to Poetics@dVerse, where the poems are about the coming of autumn

The strangest thing

I love the flowers that carpet the spring  
But here's the nub, and it's the strangest thing
That when the winter strips it ruthlessly bare
It can't strip the love, that still remains there.

Season's change, the colours flush and fade
The green and copper by orderly turn cascade
But here's the nub, and it's weird and strange
The colour of love quite refuses to change.

And here's another oddest thought to think
The fullness of harvests into harsh winters sink
Hollow and bitter and cold, but here's the nub
Strangely, no bitterness touches the love.

The planet, whatever colour it chooses to wear
Branches might dance in lace or choose to go bare
But here's the nub, and this might be the strangest
Whatever the routine, it just seems the best.

Oh, I love the flowers that dress up the earth
When they are no more, I love the undressed dirt
And I love the dirt churned into mud by rains
But here's the nub, mud dries, love remains.

I have loved each flower as well as its thorn
And those that have never a flower borne
And I found it strange, but this here's the nub
The bearing of either did not impact on love.