‘Seasons will not be quiet anymore’: Four poems by Gopal Lahiri
Photo: Karan Madhok
‘this calmness, this silence / the cruel and blasphemous are marking / an uneasy path; we can’t erase.’
Colours of Tulip
There are moments in our lives which,
give us paradise—
red tulips in the foothills of Kashmir,
longings are in the soaking eyes,
most subtle of the tears
tap on its red button,
Seasons will not be quiet anymore
the wound and anguish are making their
black scripts on the stone wall,
cider leaves kiss death on the mouth
the cold winds and dark birds
exchange the nightmares.
Blood is mute, autistic and seared
Blood on the dark night, on the stillness
Its edges blur with cries, a kind of moan.
this calmness, this silence,
the cruel and blasphemous are marking
an uneasy path; we can’t erase.
*
Worrying touch
It tries to escape, I do not know about
the rain inside,
let this young girl carries the grief
whirring world in her calm,
sick, dying, afraid-gloomy faces
awash in dark memoirs,
they do not move, the stormy winds
murmuring the menacing caresses,
the wooden door awaits her return
left-over handshakes choke the arteries.
some unnamed islands record stories
her light struggles to reach us
night is threading the needle between the stars
the worst is not over yet.
*
Seclusion
Sirens outside rising and falling
Songbirds are out in glossy jacket
in numbers without even realising,
the solitude of the empty street.
Missing smile, miss the clasp and handshake,
Final flecks of pedicures chip away,
you are coming face to face with what lies beneath.
Silent cries litter the doorsteps and window panes
phone calls are full of halos and tears,
TV channels show death counts of the pandemic.
Pacing in the drawing room
You use your footsteps to delete the days
From the calendar.
You’re cleaning the kitchen table or washing dishes even,
or dipping them and looking out the window,
shining light hits at that angle for dusk and
that beautiful spark in the light.
And there’s often a moment
in those times
you feel what kind of world is like.
A transformation is whirring in your brain.
can the seclusion
gives a body blow to Covid-19?
and take you to the noisy street, in utter chaos
you want to breathe in the open.
*
City Lights
I am here awake looking at the well-lit street.
clutching the tenderness of the old transistors,
blurred faces whisper to the sleazy ears
in the games parlour,
motionless in the chasm of playgrounds,
the lamp posts scream
near the three-point crossing.
smoke-swathed face of the city
bends and corners of the alley ways
overhead etching ink-blue marks across the grim sky
flocks of night birds flutter way
imaginary ships sailing between clouds and stars,
night time hub and people
come out from the discoloured apartments.
casting shameless and thirsty eyes to the
face masks glow in snow with cheap cigarettes on lips
minutes and hours punctuate using a period.
from the tenth-floor attic, bowing mute,
shoving the curtains with trembling hands.
alone,
sitting on a sullen chair that holds me with pleasure
I look out to the searching lights, to the hidden galaxies
behind the moon’s golden hair.
***
Gopal Lahiri is a Kolkata-based bilingual poet, critic, editor, writer and translator with 21 books published in English and Bengali. His poetry has also been published in various anthologies and eminent journals in India and abroad. His work has been published in 12 countries and his poems are translated in 10 languages. You can find him on www.gopallahiri.blogspot.com and on twitter: @gopallahiri
