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GOPAL LAHIRI

SONGSOPTOK THE WRITERS BLOG | 7/15/2015 |



FIRST TIME
that was the first time you
decided to come with me,
not allowing me to regain my
consciousness.

I was not beautiful, you said before
tapping your fingers unmindfully,
unlacing your shoes as if disclosing
a high-stake secret.

a suave gentleman, you pretended
with your people pleasing eyes,
you knew that truth could always be
peeled into the petals of lies;

cross-stitching on my dress or
brush colours on the canvas,
the way rising plants resisted fingers,
I could refill my heart in my distress.

I could not fathom but stood silent
after receiving the phone call,
dark all the way.

still I could remember
what it meant to be starved.
forced it back where it was
I could find that little space,
for my strength, for my longing,
not easy to forget my hidden dreams.
…………………………………………………………..

HOLY CITY

tonight rain clouds
slow-jamming the rising moon.

colours are poison
colours spit venom.

leached away
from hungry skin and bone.

widows walking barefoot
childhood bleeds.

a silent procession in darkness
towards the bathing ghat.

feel it between words
of desire and sin.

to wash the colours
thrown in white sari.

surrender to the tides
till the river collapses

they don’t know when
the colours turn into poison.

suffer and remain opaque
till the moon disappears
…………………………………………………………………


ADMISSION

Now that it has begun
As though in a time of deepest harmony.

In a circle of sound,
There was a faint flush of tears

How painful it was in the past-
Footsteps lost the altitude in staircases.

On one level, the unerring truth
of sharp knife pressed in,
and the stain erased in a breathing world.

Yet far behind the blank wall
Someone did dredge up memories,
Ashen and grotesque.

Looking at the glass window
the fragile bones of the lonely comet could
easily fall and spill.

The starry night
Silent and still,
Burdened with mystery and milky ways,

Told more than you could tell.
……………………………………………………………………….


UNKNOWN

Soaking in the evening light
the glittering café smiles like a
tarot card reader.

the wall with vicious silhouettes
more music, more jazz and
the free flowing tap dance,

on the wooden table’
a big plate of sandwich, bottled water
and an espresso to go with,

running out of care or
in despair, one old lady at the corner
with one tooth telling stories.

as if from a deep cavern,
somewhere safe there perhaps,
in pain and pleasure,

a gentle voice whispers,
concealing the truth of old age,
of broken stone and sharp thorn,

like the plague, it is infectious.
look and look at her frigid eyes,
do I really know what it is all for?

…………………………………………………………………

SUNDECK

In that sundeck we were there reading the blue sky
and the sun flooded the sea front and the cliff.

There was no sound of slamming of iron, no
painting of sunken eyes at the edge of the wall.

The rose petals dipped in water, stuck out
their dialects, here the wind was tight lipped,

Our low voice, we listened to something we have
heard before, words probably landed inside,

We put them back on the basket, the fresh
flowers, came out of their wet stillness,

A sketch book study on storm’s eye, once
entertained us, one way you would feel,

Soft sigh perhaps, the swath of slow clouds
rubbing the skin, just hovered, asking for more.

A silence we absorbed at the surface, coming from
the south, erasing the deadly insomnia epidemic,

The lips awake, from one bed to another
the kisses resonate, stayed live all day and night.

[GOPAL LAHIRI]



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