By Sekhar Banerjee
The Kingdom of Salt My aunt, not a poet and now dead, used to say an ocean is a dark kingdom of tear, fish eggs and the lost ships Geography teachers always place a town near a bay and fasten the bay with a quay Like a tissue and a tear drop hanging from the eye A river can never really hook a bay and pull it inlands as suggested by some Indian map-makers, traditional, when in love; a bay is too moody and expansive Like a huge enemy ship lost from a dark fleet It is a descendant of the ocean and some clownfish If you want to prevent the ocean at the bay, you build an abrupt settlement of raw fish, sweat water, mechanics and the fishermen at the river’s hem; install iron links, a hollow sky, piers and the jetties; start a family, rear kids, beat the wife and drink local liquor, always sweet and sour, like a village pastor and sleep at the start of a dark night It sometimes happens with all anglers, some lovers, a few retired geography teachers and the dealers of tear, hook and fish My mother, a poet and now dead, used to say a river and a bay can never be separated like love and a fall from grace Like the clown fish and the shipwreck. Like tap water and a blue bucket beneath. Like a flow and the loss of it
Sekhar Banerjee is an author. He has four poetry collections and a monograph on an Indo-Nepal border tribe to his credit. His works have been published in Indian Literature, The Bitter Oleander, Ink Sweat and Tears, Verse-Virtual, Setu, Kitaab, Borderless Journal, Better Than Starbucks, The Tiger Moth Review, and elsewhere. He lives in Kolkata, India.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL