Poetry

flickr photo

By

Moinak Dutta

Straight from the kitchen

Of all those segments of our living

That we cling to morn till evening

Kitchen seems to be the only place sane

There you work and grind and I get to your plane

You put cardamom seeds and chilli flakes

I put cream and pineapple in milkshake

You make pastes of tamarind and ginger

I find how on your apron yellowish tinge lingers

And then when you shout seeing vegs useless

Rotten tomatoes you throw at me with rage,

I look at your cups held in two hands

They remind me of our honey filled lands

Where after our consummation we drank wine

You keep on grinding grains of rice fine,

Together we make our kitchen happy and wise

Together there we fall into silence and then rise

To meet our differences, our forlorn dreams

Kitchen noises and smells oft to our bedroom bring

Hunger and taste of plays that we gotten in our blood

Desserts what we make dropping lemon juice in curd

Adding a bit of salt and sugar into it

Food that we make to live, to love and to eat.

The bird by my window one morn

It had been a morning of a day

And I was there sitting by the sil

The light was weaving outside a dream

And the winter touched me with her mild chill,

Then saw a bird unknown and white

She came there and sat quiet

Just by my window where I

Was admiring morn’s light,

‘You must have come from faraway land

For in your eyes I can see whiteness frosty’

I told her seeing her looking at me,

And she said she had come flying seven seas,

Where she had seen God’s awesome beauty,

And like a child curious forever

I asked her if she had seen any river

And she told me ‘Yes, dear yes!

I have seen Huron how dressed

In the evening and also in the morn

I have seen how there days are born’

I just looked at her eyes so filled with dreams

I just looked how she painted a wondrous scene

Right in front of me, how had I beauty seen,

‘Tell me more, O You the messenger of dawn

Whence You arrive with beauty, thus borne

Carrying it with such ease and bless

Tell me more how there trees get dressed’

I just like a child asked her to tell

Stories of her flight and her alien tales,

And she spoke how the sugar maple tree

Breaks out in colors of rosy pink with glee,

She told me how other trees too

Take orange, red, cinnamon hue;

‘And Huron, how does she flow?

What wealth does she carry?

What splendid glow?’

I asked her again, never forgetting the river

Of whom she talked, giving me shiver,

A thrill, a joyous yield,

How I thought how she really did feel

Whence she flew over the river there

What colors draped her, what turned her fair,

And she said, ‘O if you have seen her dear

You would just forget her never,

She wears a calm and green dress

And by her bank thick woods she does brace’

I just looked at her beautiful eyes

And felt how she came out of the sky

Just to sit right there for awhile

Telling me how she flew over a thousand miles.

Moinak Dutta

Born on 5^th September, 1977 to an immigrant family, he has been writing poems and stories from school days. Completed a post graduation in English. Presently engaged as a teacher of English. Many of his poems and stories are published in national and international anthologies and magazines. Written reviews of books and fictions, one on Upanisads can be found at www.blogapenguinindiaclassic.blogspot.com.

His debut fiction ‘Pestilence’ was published in 2009. He had  signed an agreement with a publishing house in October,2012for the publication of his second English literary fiction ‘Online@Offline’. The fiction had been published in 2014, January by Lifi Publications. His third fiction titled ‘ In search of la radice’ is published in August 2017 by Xpress Publications.

Blogs regularly at www.theboatsong.blogspot.com. Interested in photography, films and music.