Poetry By Abin Chakraborty
SUNDAY MORNING WITH MY DAUGHTER I'm halted by leaves That flow through the streets With dry brown banners on high. They chant their slogans of expired dreams And sing to the tunes of decay and dross With posters of others' bright claims. Drained, I trudge and balance my books And sink within sofa and sloth. But suddenly she bursts with laughter and light And tramples my checklist of loss with her dreams That range from the towers of wizards and kings To spaceships in canyons of Mars. I jump on her broom and fly And bin all my "items not found". LAYERS OF GREY At times the days are all blurred. Calendar and clock, melt into shapes Of one grey blob Sprinkled with fleets of yellow fallen leaves Which sweep like ghazals of long buried loves Here, along asphalted planes. Slowly and slowly, they creep into my veins And drain all the pigments through pores. So, I flap and fumble in frustrating files And fiddle with the fables of fate. Of course, it's not always such. There are bursts of crimson and Cobalt and mauve That light up the dark of dog-eared days With splashes and patterns of light. But all seems distant and loose. I flutter and rattle like windows unhinged Or knobs that are no longer in groove. Only in mists of grey, pallid strokes My pages of misshapen woollens are laid Like hoardings of outdated ads. I cuddle and smear their shades And grizzle into layers of grey.
Abin Chakraborty teaches English Literature in Chandernagore College and his poems have been published in different magazines. A collection of his poems, Unlettered Longings, has recently been published by Ukiyoto Publishing.
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