If poems heal, poets are healers

By Moinak Dutta

Red Oleander tree

Even if I miss it,

The onset of spring I mean,

That red oleander tree would surely know

At which hour the spring would arrive,

When and how,


For she would bloom,

Even before cuckoos would start singing,

And fragrance of gulal would float in the breeze,


Even if I miss spring

The red oleander would not,


For she would bloom

Despite everything

In every spring.


Mother’s touch

Mother’s touch always had that magic of a doctor

Sans that ugly smell of medicines,

Remember once, just before Durga pujo,

Had fever,

Maha shashti it was the day,

The day which always began the festivities,

Ma sat beside my cot,

Putting wet towel over my forehead,

Her bangles made curious sounds every time she touched my head;


With end of her saree she would wipe my face, reddened lobes of ears,

And her voice would ring like nursery rhymes,

In my half drowsy state would I hear her singing songs for me,

That way how Mahashashti slipped away to Dashami didn’t notice

Then one fine morning, woke up without temperature, with Ma just beside my cot, holding a box of crayons.


Long distance love

Of all affairs had I in my life,

Long distance love

Gave me a curious blend of hope and despair,

Freedom and slavery, yearning and detestation;


Lack of communication for more than one month would make me half sage,

It would take at least thirty phone calls to make matters right,

Following which came a sudden rise of yearning, strong and intoxicating, like cheap pegs of whiskey,


Then came a slow killing of all restlessness,

Yellow moon, large and low

Would come down climbing that coconut tree

Beside my solitary confinement.


The paper wheel seller

In sultry scorching noon of summer

When the lane before our house would wear the most desolate look,

Oft that paper wheel seller would walk by,

A score and half paper wheels stuck at the end of a pole

Would make a stirring noise, whirling in the hot listless air;


I would think of the paper wheel seller as the most blessed soul

A magician perhaps, a liberated man,

Ignorant of the heat of Indian summer.


Can’t we hibernate?

Can’t we hibernate,

For some months?

Like some other creatures do,

Sleeping through every winter

Or summer,

Making a cave deep into mother earth

Sleeping, sleeping just?


When we are fast asleep

The earth becomes so beautiful,

We dream, while the planet reboots itself

Making it greener, purer, happier,


When the cars do not honk,

When the factories do not shoot columns of black fumes

Into the sky,

The Earth lives merrily.


Can’t we hibernate?


Moinak Dutta is a published poet, fiction writer and a teacher. Got two literary and romantic fictions to his credit namely ‘ Online@offline’ and ‘ In search of la radice’. His  third fiction is going to be published soon. He loves to travel and to do nature photography. Interested in creating video poetry or poetry films. His debut video poetry / poetry film ‘ I think I love twilight’ already got accepted in Lift Off film festivals across the globe and got enlisted in some others too. He lives in Kolkata, India with his wife, son and a pet dog.

Email :

Social media :



Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s