Poetry: Bina Sarkar Ellias

Bina Sarkar Ellias is poet, founder, editor, designer and publisher of International Gallerie, an award-winning publication since 1997. Besides, she is a fiction writer and art curator. Her books of poems include The Room, Fuse (which has been taught at the Towson University USA), When Seeing Is Believing, Cercana Lejania / Closer Farness and Song of a Rebel. Her poems have been translated into French, Spanish, Greek Chinese, Arabic and Urdu. She received a Fellowship from the Asia Leadership Fellow Program 2007, the Times Group Yami Women Achievers’ award, 2008, and the FICCI/FLO 2013 award for excellence in her work.

(Five short poems OR one option long poem!)

1.

When Did I Become

Your Footstep?

when did i become

your footstep?

it was years before

when the canvas

was clean, except

for a few untidy scrawls

of a childhood tangled

in the winds of change

fraught by uneven

circumstances

that I swallowed

like the morning glass

of milk prescribed

for healthy bones~

and emerged in fine fettle

with a robust mind

that nevertheless

was splintered

here and there

by the ragged edges

of reality. yet––

somewhere, some gospels

had sunk in.

somewhere the bell

of reason had rung––

summoning truth

that began to grow

and edify

like a tree of life

nurtured

within the locus

of one’s hidden being

watered by Rumi

and Khayyam

and contemplating clouds

raining words––

words... when, did I become

your footstep?

***

2.

Mother Tongue

it flowed

from her womb

the river of words

that became

mine, faithful~

following me

to be loved

to be caressed

in articulations;

to be read

in random forays

to be comfort

in a sense

of belonging

to be inscribed

on the map

of my spring years.

it slipped then

through the cracks

lost on the highway

of a life lived

in layers of wanderings.

the alphabets

that had shaped

my childhood

became strangers

the lilt of the language

became alien

the lexicon

a forgotten forest

syllables mere murmurs

of distant seas

on the map

of my summer years.

it flowed back again

with the late tide

to claim

its bank of memories.

it flowed back again

with the music

of its cadence

echoing in corridors

where they had

once nestled.

and I dust away

the fugitive years

and shine the light

of a lost language

on the map

of my autumn years.

sweet is the sound

of a mother tongue.

***

3.

Where is Your Home?

where

is your home

my friend?

in the 

penumbra

of night

or in the 

caves of lost 

dreams 

in the

bazaars of

transactions

or in the

silence of

a monastery

in the

fiction of 

halogen lights

or in the

narratives of 

untold stories?

***

4.

That Day of Prayer

it was that day

when a prayer

came astride

the dark horse

of a despot 

with fangs of venom.

the wind scurried 

in all directions 

like one gone mad

as it swept

his rhetoric 

across oceans

into masses 

listening with 

sore ears;

a Trumpet blowing

a Bannon prayer 

into a nuclear bomb

that will explode 

in the fields 

of compassion;

in the heart 

of humanity

to expunge the voice 

of peace.

raging now

as the day draws near

for his exit

he fuels a storm

the world is agape

the world hangs…

a prayer hangs 

in the air, floating 

amidst conspiracies.

the world waits.

***

5.

That Night

that night

the universe swam

inside her

as she swirled

with the 

autumn leaves

and all else

was still.

the forest

was a theatre

and the ancient

trees witness

to a dream.

the moon watched, 

in opiated silence

her slow dance

with autumn leaves

till she sank

to earth, drunk

with the notion

of transience.

and the ocean

churned,

knowing she had

sinned.

she had stolen

stars for her

eyes.

she had stolen

the liminal.

***

(OPTION POEM)

Let us go...

After TS Eliot’s ‘The Love Song of Alfred Prufrock’

let us go then, you and I 

through lockdown streets beneath the sky

with tired minds and weary sighs

find staring strays with hollow eyes 

and a lost wind at moonrise.

while it crawls in when we are least aware

here and there and everywhere

a conquering Covid in our lair

and a question hanging in the air

let’s pluck it and let us dare.

oh, do ask, “What is it?”

let us unpeel and resist. 

in the room the leaders come and go

talking of Machiavellian politico. 

and while the grey light leans upon the window pane

the clouds gather in the sky and shower rain

washing roofs and sinful stains

and the weary migrant workers’ pain

sweeping through gutters and green fields 

cleaning wounds while it healed

the souls of those who cannot cry

when their loved ones resign and die. 

and indeed there will be a day

when the grey light will show us the way

sliding down our city street

it will prepare us to meet

the monsters who stalk our lives 

from the chambers of political hives 

there will be time to kindle interest 

to stand up, go out and protest

and while the virus weaves its way

and conspiracy theories steal our day 

we shall bells of promise ring 

we shall laugh and we shall sing. 

in the fields the leaders come and go

seeds of hate and divides they sow. 

and indeed there will be a day

when I shall want to lose my way

in the wilderness of life’s sorrows

in the uncertainty of tomorrows 

(they will say: “how her mind is losing it!”)

how she’s shrinking bit by bit

there are dark clouds in her eyes 

there’s a tremor on the rise

will she curse? will she curse?

challenge the silent universe?

will she hold the virus at bay

or will she call it a day? 

for i have known the treacheries 

have known life’s vagaries 

i’ve measured out my hours with searching thoughts

to mitigate the fears that have brought

the world to a prolonged pause 

so what should i presume’s the cause? 

and i have held the prism to my mind—

the mind that constructs and deconstructs

and when the world is nailed to a fear

do i shut my ears so i do not hear

the viral drumbeats in the media

do i presume it’s schizophrenia?

do I take the path that’s linear? 

and i have seen the lovers’ despair

as they cannot breathe the fragrant air

of a sweet romance by sand and sea 

for the lockdown doors have no key

now they meet on a digital space

share imagined kisses and virtual embrace.

and should i then assume?

for the surreal there is infinite room? 

should i then assume that migrant labourers are not doomed?

that the daily wage earner is only consumed

by a drama that is a mere interval? 

perhaps i’m just hallucinating 

perhaps my sanity is retreating. 

and the hours of day glide in a trance

as don quixote waves his lance

and tired hutments turn to castles

and hungry eyes begin to dazzle

should i after a sumptuous meal

a wretched guilt in my guts feel?

but though i rant and though i swear

this demonic virus steals the air

it conquers gullies, raids the poor

it assaults the rich and furthermore

it has taught us not to discriminate 

and in short, not to hate. 

and it isn’t worth it, after all

we are insignificant, we are too small

an atom in the universe

why do we then curse 

amidst our desperate need 

and insatiable greed

there is one question that i seed

so readers, please pay heed—

when this earth is fractured so

why, why do we wound it more?

we shall leave then a legacy

of ruins for this century;

and that’s not all. that’s not all. 

and would that not be all, let’s stall

the pandemic on its Corona crawl

after the closed doors’ meetings

after the misgoverned beatings

the cruel getting more cruel—

the tricksters adding more fuel—

to wear or not to wear a mask

that is the question we continue to ask

wouldn’t it have been worthwhile 

to follow Ardern and Tsai? 

and all the wise women who did not hesitate 

to battle Covid before it’s too late. 

no, I’m not Prince Eliot, nor was meant to be;

am a slave to words and dreams that come to me

am a stalker of the skies and wind and sea

living life on the edge of serenity

and on the edge of fractured sanity

with thousands bruised by lockdown calamities. 

full of emptiness and hollow echoes

that resonate their relentless woes—

almost, like lost shadows. 

i grow bold ... i grow bold ...

i denounce the leaders’ whose souls are sold. 

shall i stir up some parodies? do I dare to sing a protest song?

I shall wear my mask and march along

i have heard the rebels singing passionately 

they’re in prison, will they be set free? 

i have seen them restless in the prison cells

locked in for ringing truth bells

for the liars are afraid of naked truth

for all they want is to be uncouth

one day, one day their arrogance will perish

for that day this life i shall cherish. 

let us go… let us go…

seeds of peace let us sow. 

***

---

Setu, Febuary 2021