Three Poems by Jaydeep Sarangi

Panic Attack

My calls ended
In silence. Tried again. And again.
Blood runs wild. Oliver asks for more! 
All my handkerchiefs are wet
Vomited several times. Blood of disgust.

My  hungry  routine follows me.
How do I look like these days?
A devil.
A Brahmin.
An elite.
An abnormal.
A lover?
Possibilities make me mad.
 I am an admirer of reviews
On me
My  insecurity
My struggle 
My last drop of tear 
Is for my mistress  I leave with my heart behind me.
Crush it. Break it. Prove your right over it. 

I’ll have a small cottage
Near the banks of Dulung.
My forefathers will sit beside me
We shall share our stories. 
I’m happy to see 
Her  happy. She will remain so. My world.

I will reset my watch. I should be the master of my means.

How are You?

At times
I   like to say those three words, 
but  my old tongue  pulls me back.
  Current status
Or my ego,
 My old pain,
My professional make up.

Words sneak out, those  three words,
 In another way

I don’t need to estimate her mind
Her strict discipline.

A palmist and his stories to spin.
You are a rebellious! 

I swap my smart screen:
  'I love you' becomes 'How are you?'

Winds of Change

There are no stars to-night
But those of memory.
(from ‘My Grandmother’s Love Letters’ by Hart Crane)

Why are you looking at me with tearful eyes again and again?
Stare me no more with tears rolling down your eyes.
Don’t sing a farewell song
With your throat choked in tears.

If you have suppressed your wounds by smile these years
Today, smile only. 
No elegy to write at this hour
When your 
One eye is covered with black glass.
No star smiling. Only a mirror reflection of 
Good  Time shared.

I wish my love kisses  your eyes of a face about to cry.
End of a movement announces another arrival.
Somewhere in some  social form. 

A flag on left shoulder
You are   pierced to death by the  kissing  of a   bullet.
My comrades, Things are changing.

The Other Side of Silence

I am a juicy fruit, voluptuous and campy, one might say
‘Exotic’, I am a  native  here.
My lips have stories
Some stories you like some you may not.

I bring storm with me.
My loaded metaphor
Gives you frowns even on a sunny day.

I never played tricks,
Never played dice like Yudhisthir.

I experience equal consequence
In Syria or in any democracy.

I rise early to wash the asylum grime
And the land which is not mine,
I walk pass so many lamp posts
Who stare at me .
Silent memories stored in the name of peace.

Note: Yudhistir lost his kingdom and property when he was defeated hypocritically in the game of dice in the Mahabharata.

Who is My Master?

What language should I speak?

All these in a package?

Possibilities are like countless toys
My daughter used play some years back.
I move between
The language of the poet
And the translator,
Reason and effect
As if one will die without the other.
Someone told me when I was a tinny boy
Forgotten her name
May be a shadow
“Language is a master.”
I didn’t understand
I was too small.
Now the sky is clear to me
I see things through its language
I read my master through his code.
A coat made on the banks of the river Thames
Is not that will be living for ever.
Small sprouts are visible on the banks of the Ganges
And near the banks of the Yellow river.
We are holding willow branches.
 My old master is to leave behind his earthly abode soon.

A new text  is born!