Poetry

January 24, 2018 Poetry , POETRY / FICTION

alcan photo

 

By

Gopal Lahiri

 

 

 

Blue Whistlers

 

 

The milkman who has grown too old

Now turns silent.

The sound of the cycle bell rings,

Those market women squat on the footpath.

 

There are pigeons and sparrows in our narrow lane,

Not always leaf peeping around,

They can still remember bullets and holes of the riots.

 

The starch gone out of his pants, the newspaper man

Tells me all those countless acts of heroism.

 

The charcoal night includes thorns

Leaning over the fish tail palm, shadows crowded back

Untangled the knotted strands.

 

Now the Gulmohor tree on the gate,

Heads heavy with seeds,

Ready to let loose the buds.

 

Converging on the broken walls,

The morning rays in parallel

Fill up every crevice.

 

Scars and wounds appear only in a haze

Shadows play around the wooden doorways

With the memory bands.

It’s a crucial time to be alone, silent.

 

And with every passing of the day

Counting the age of this sprawling island city,

My morning still reaches out

To the tweets of those tiny blue whistlers.

 

 

 

 

Sea Lounge

 

 

Disabled sun barely lights up the afternoon

Scattered clouds like chopped salads

on the southern sky.

 

Police barricades hem up the sidewalks near the

Gateway of India.

 

Even then there are times when

Fishing boats’ flags fluster like Monet’s dusk painting,

 

Twilight of a different kind-

Uncovered, unadorned, unblinking.

 

Meltdown hungry for sev puri and cheese toast

The crowded lounge filled with tootles and screeches,

cackles of laughter,

post truth, plain speak and trolls- roll into one.

 

Gossamer saris shining in the bright light,

perfect in their giggles,

the tumult that flickers in colour of oriental sapphire,

order organic blends and milk latte.

 

Ceiling glows to keep alive the unattended souls.

Convoluted contours measuring the different levels,

Offering lessons on aggression and wordless sound.

 

What is love if not for The Lady of the Shallots

Looking for the coveted Queens Necklace,

 

Outside the evening sky speak gently to the strangers.

Seven torches of God, Seven touches of fire.

 

 

 

 

 

Gopal Lahiri

Gopal Lahiri was born and grew up in Kolkata, India. He is a bilingual poet, critic and writer and widely published in Bengali and English language in India and abroad. He has six poetry collections in English and jointly edited the anthology of poems: Scaling Heights. He can be reached at glahiri@gmail.comhttps://www.facebook.com/glahiri and https://twitter.com/gopallahiri.

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