In the City of Kaal-Ketu

On March 18, 2012 by admin

  

Sumanta Mukhopadhyay

  

Delusion

clear field

afternoon hops and

the sisterly evening

 

lugs him, clutching hands

 

sitting by the bus window

 

why did i think all this

 

the world a quiet family

why did I think thus

 

News

when news arrives

it arrives like an emperor

 

killer king

couldn’t give two hoots about us

 

tail up, towards the cowshed we scamper

scurry like our forefathers

 

and keep on running

 

when events happen

we do not care about news.

 

Lock

cold, brass lock

i touch and it speaks

at night

 

each shard of this broken life

soaked in wretched sadness

 

an absent fairytale

 

if you hold on to it a bit more bodily

like an old man, it inquires

 

“has everyone come back?”

it seeks

 

do I really know

how much of the door is outside

and how much inside

 

Gita

sprinkling  a bit of a mirth

i see

the scene is quite drenched

by the evening redness

in fields, in the grass

the way a restless worm moves

to another such grass

so darts troop of souls

from blade to blade

in vedic discipline

but as they rush

like atheists broken from their spell

they speak up

about that torn shirt

they inquire

why hurry

if the kids fall behind

what then?

 

Bag

running, suppose

one trips at the moving bus

what then?

 

and if one forgot, suddenly

to run

as the train approached

 

when he beckons he does

when he does not

he hits you straight at the chest

 

the canvas bag remains

and the mother’s

talking, bony polestar

 

this bag

know this bag is your

bread and butter

 

Coma

blind in rage

you are senseless, about two hours now

is this called coma?

do i then step out this midnight

or tomorrow, early morning perhaps

bed, flowers, frankincense, robe

getting hold

 

i’d reach straight to the hospital

 

thinking all this

i woke up

 

darkly room

 

Poison Tree

who are these around

tigers, wolves may be

milk white dhoti-kurta

 

roots of poison

 

on leaves, flowers, buds, branches

milk flows.

 

Touch

at a great height

the wail

that mutes one

 

i write the sound of its

saline contour

in Braille.

 

Fever

the skeleton’s forehead

i feel

it’s running fever, 100 celsius

 

no fan

no cash

no light

no words

 

a suffocating room.

———————————————

Sumanta Mukhopadhyay works at the Barasat Government College. This is a short selection  from his recently published book of poems Kaal-Ketur Shohore.

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