Poetry: Abin Chakraborty

Abin Chakraborty

Ukraine

Billows of smoke

Have cannoned through my screens

And pierced with shrapnel my skull.

I cower, I writhe

I tunnel into fear

And wake up with craters

In the middle of my wall

Through which I can spot

A mutilated pram

Singed and peppered in ash.

Beyond on the streets 

are people in flocks, 

Dragging their lives 

within misshapen bags

Tagged with uncertain terminal and dates

Plastered in reams of historical texts

Which suddenly have bared their fangs.

They speak in the dialect of Sylhet or Sindh

And quibble about Budapest and Prague.

***

Islands

Laughter and French fries mingle in air

As free flowing waves of cars pass by

Booming with music and light.

Behind in the building that's now being torn

Someone still scrubs those grey cement floors

While on its roof, in a tarpaulin tent

Someone else has put on rice on stove,

Perhaps for a dinner for both.

Alone on the roof, I gaze at these scenes

And ponder on lines that never can meet - 

Islands in fabrics of time.

***

A funeral

They praised him in botanical terms:

How far his branches of knowledge had grown

How his hard work had yielded such fruits

How from his shades and evergreen boughs

So many had grown or found their wings

And bloomed into colours untold.

Some even spoke of the toughness of his bark

That even led some to sail their skiffs

Far beyond these pallid shores.

But what he had needed

and what he had hoped

No one had read out or told.

If only those questions were asked

Perhaps his wrists wouldn't bleed.

***

Solitude

At times it seems

That winter never leaves.

And I am the traveller

that's missed the last train

Seeking some shade

In a cold, sodden night

In a platform that's deserted and bare.

Warmth is the headlight 

that dazzles and leaves

Deepening the dark evermore.

So I try some tricks

To turn shingles to flints

And opt for the posture

Of misanthropic sage

Knowing all the pitfalls that lie.

Solitude can only make sense

When you can choose it at will.

***

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Setu, March 2022