Sekhar Banerjee is an author. He has four poetry collections and a monograph on an Indo-Nepal border tribe to his credit. Sekhar’s works have been published in The Bitter Oleander, Indian Literature, Kitaab, Muse India, Ink Sweat and Tears, Setu, Panoply, Bengaluru Review, Mad Swirl, Cafe Dissensus, Borderless Journal, RIC Journal, Spillwords, Mad in Asia Pacific, Dissident Voice and elsewhere. He is a former Secretary of Paschimbanga Bangla Akademi under Government of West Bengal. He lives in Kolkata, India.
X
You wake up early in the morning to count
the number of common crows
on messy tram wires near
Ezra Street west; they sit like an assembly or a conference
or an urgent municipal meeting
and you try to make a guess at the spread
of love and sickness
Does an even number of crows signify
something adequate like a happy couple or two symmetrical sides
of a closed gate?
Is odd more public than private?
You don’t know if you can break this sequence
of symmetry and oddness
and you start comparing yourself
with a leap year – a shortage,
without reaching out to any conclusion
about those things
which we generally term ‘X`
while masked lovers and astrologers freely roam
in odd and even numbers
with brittle goldfish jars – a jar, a fish, a loss
in Calcutta – the old lunch box
***
A Moth’s Itinerary
Sometimes you may find
an Atlas moth trapped like an outdated longing
in the maroon underground coach
running fast towards Clarke Quay
and you instantly know you are going
to Dhoby Ghaut. The moth might also be going
to Dhoby Ghaut or returning from Punggol
or Australia
like a somnambulist. It walks around Bugis
in June or roams in the Arab Street
in spring
They are not like the domestic bees and I don’t know
much about a moth’s itinerary
or how it travels from one place to another place,
from one hotel room to another
hotel room, one continent to another continent
like a tired migrant in search of
sleep
But it always remains to be seen
if we see them returning
more often than not from their endless trips, as if,
to know that there is someone somewhere
still waiting
***
Augustine
I have christened my backpack Augustine
He sits all day long,
almost in squatting position, on my back
We harvested enough lullabies, circuses
and death in our backpack
since the ancient luggage makers discovered
Augustine on our shoulders
in a prehistoric dawn
when our nightmares and dreams leaked
from our sleep and formed Augustine
on our back
like any other small thing that holds the large –
like a small photograph
of a large mountain, or an epitaph
рж╢েржЦрж░ржмাржмু, ржЗংрж░েржЬি рждেржоржи ржмুржЭিржиা, ржХিржи্рждু рждিржиржЯি ржХржмিрждা ржкржб়ে ржПржЯুржХু ржмুржЭрж▓াржо, ржЖржкржиাрж░ poetic ржЗржоেржЬাрж░িржЧুрж▓ো рж╕ржд্ржпিржЗ ржЕржиржи্ржп, ржЕрж╕াржзাрж░ржг। ржзржи্ржпржмাржж।
ReplyDeleteржиিрж░্ржорж▓ ржзрж░।