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