The morning comes in with
its melancholy mistwrapped tight about it
a slightly misshapen pea in its pod
someone’s going early, the others late
a word, phrase, a flakelodged under my nail
a sunsliver flung up and caught
between the teeth
of time, someone leavesnothing’s spoken, the door creaks
closed but can’t fully shut, the frame’s warped.
a quote ‘s been left, a line
from a verse, snagged outside the wall, it’s not a good sign
and true enough, the one who first wrote it, is lost.
Yesterday was the death anniversary of one of the great Bengali poets, Jibanananda Das.
And this morning I woke up to the news of Sunil Gangopadhyay's death, an iconic personality of Bengali contemporary literature, revered in India and Bangladesh. A favourite line from his poetry roughly translates - only for poetry have I sneered at immortality. I grew up reading his poetry and fiction, and I know there is much to celebrate, he has left behind a huge body of work, but right now all I can be is sad.
Shared @ dVerse
