Dying City
Honking taxis, buses, blue-white buildings reshaping
the city’s flesh and bones, scattered anecdotes,
a murder on the serpentine lane, wagging tongues,
desiccated trams, stained walls, imperial nostalgias,
twilight extrudes the spectral accumulations,
time never progresses here in this dying city
strobic eyeballs of the passerby, not cruising,
the crowd speaking in half- knowledge, are caught
up in the eddies of chaos,
An anemic crow on the branchless tree sharpens
his eyes; untangle the reflection upside down,
The slum boys play football on the roadside park.
A memory dormant, a dirty dark alley draws ambigram.
A clock-tower shines in the first light of the morning sun.
@ gopallahiri
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Threes
1.
At each shout, each footfall,
the wind breaks into a song
under the canopy of rain clouds.
2.
Drumbeats harden in autumnal light
rain drops falling in the puddle,
the round of applause settles.
3.
The images fill up, glimmer and silence
there is a long pause, almost an inertia
of feelings- forsaken, murky.
@gopallahiri
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Anaphora of This Afternoon
This afternoon is sauntering
through the forest
This afternoon is smeared words
feelings of sorrow.
This afternoon is a retreat from sun
and electric heater.
This afternoon is blood on the streets
for us to lick.
This afternoon is that breaks out
in my heart.
This afternoon is the dim light
of the foyer.
This afternoon is the tongueless mouth
mumbling your name
@gopallahiri
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Tea Pot, cups and two Souls
(Inspired by the painting of Jean-Francois Raffaelli, Art Institute of Chicago)
I extend my hands to touch the canvas-oil on linen,
surely pure colours mix in the original brushstroke.
There two souls sitting together- quiet, pensive, brooding,
tilted heads, woolen hats and white scurf covering grey hairs.
Tea pot, cups and plates, milk pot, sugar bowl roll out,
No splashing tea, clinking cups and spoons, finger licking.
The tablecloth reminds the fragments of what they know,
soft, silent looks bring the most interesting dreams.
Brick walls and flower plants draw daytime lucidity
the plucky cat alone stiches the hem of the afternoon.
Aroma of fresh tea oozes magical, daylight doze,
no one is to hold them in check, to steer their new age journey.
Time and space for being lost and in a kind of hurry
A lingering whiff, it says about tomorrow.
©gopallahiri
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Intense Love Stories
I walk through the vast fields of mustard
in the breezy and windswept morning.
The golden heads are falling on my toes,
touching and calming my bare feet.
I lie down on the grass, let the haze and
miasma come in and roll me back,
Two sparrows stand on their wonky feet,
each in the ease of a single, feathery body.
Bees wait at a distance on the tip of a white
flower, sunrays touch their shining faces.
It’s a hot summer day, but there in the water
a flock of geese winging fast, an epoch melts,
Singing, chirping, roaming where lilies stand,
This morning taps out intense love stories.
@gopallahiri
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Gopal Lahiri is a bilingual poet, critic, editor, and translator. He has authored 31 books, including eight solo/jointly edited books. His poems are published across more than 150 journals and translated in 18 languages He has been nominated for Pushcart Prize for poetry in 2021. He has received Setu Excellence Award, Pittsburgh, US, in poetry in 2020 and Ukiyoto award for poetry in 2022. He has been conferred First Jayanta Mahapatra National Award on literature in 2024. Recent Credits: One Art Journal, Ink, Sweat & Tears, Shot Glass Journal, MasticadoresUSA, MasticadoresTaiwan, Amythyst Review, Verse-Virtual Journal, Setu Journal, Kitaab Journal and International Times.
