That Tree is a Myth
Pranabendu Dasgupta Charred Wood piece Whose stench do you carry along, charred wood piece? Is it my body of that prior birth that gutted my Hindu motherland? Am I not still alive in this birth—wherefore this smokescreen? I am not dead, charred wood piece, no? Not yet vamoosed in human suspicion-bile? See how I can feel love, still I do. Still I can sprint straight onto that gaping field there Ah, smouldering wood piece dear, why often do you reek so downright stark? ………. Yo-Yo Now at hand, now shifting Faith, funds, libido, politics Quite secure strings on my palm, fingertips But strange now hops, skips apace Now at hand. Eludes again. Thus things go on. Suppose I fail to stick with the tension Every shred falls off then. Strings entangle: all these fun stuff Goes haywire, what are mine Faith, funds, libido, politics. ………. Relationships Do not quite feel like going anywhere these days Resentment, humiliation, jealousy, disregard Who do I turn to? 15 years past that buddy who would give away his soul Freely, in daily restaurant sessions Now thinks nothing save writing novels Novels? So famous everyone, hectic Have turned into ants for vocation—all No, do not quite feel like going anywhere these days. But sometimes, from that double-decker bus I spy Young things, brightly dressed, walking past the plaza Laughter, pure animation, exchanging lightning glances—love and kill (as if a sprightly stream dashes past two stilly hills) I wish I could get down to the road and announce: “Listen, I do not know any one of you, still how so much I love you from afar Would you care to take me with you for a while?” ………. The Tree All of them ganged up to hack down that tree Once, twice, a third time…countless Hew after hew, slash next slash Now peeling off, grazing the crust The birds nesting inside, scampered off to the sky The whole forest resounded with those thumping hatchets But after chopping for the whole day When the tree unmoved stood its ground Exasperated they said: The tree actually isn’t there, you know The whole thing about the tree is a myth. ………. Mute Textile Plant Unspeaking textile plant, how long will this go on? So much work is left undone, fabric amassed Dumped beneath your feet Will you not match thread to thread, sketch patterns once again? Have you thought about how many remain exposed, bare If you do not clothe them? Unless you deliver designs, no floral blouse on our pretty maid. These broken, hushed pieces of fabric. Ah, meaningless, garbage all otherwise. Unspeaking textile plant, like a teleprinter speak up now Like a gushing spring, surge yourself into work. Pranabendu Dasgupta died in 2007. adminhumanitiesunderground.org