Poetry: Gopal Lahiri

Gopal Lahiri
Take me to the forest

And every forest has its own history, 
its own allusion,
a world of trees and their echoes
pause on a wooden bridge
quite apart from yours,

The sky is full of unexpected clouds
gives a exploratory image
a grey quartz vein piercing
 the country rock,
thereby typical.

And the eye is fixed on the far gone
fading and slanting
into the mountain range truncated by humans, 
into the lake slowly rippling,
sends regrets with almost the same intensity.

Now the birds give consent 
to sentinel the place,
I want to step down that way and think,
look into it,
why not enjoy its meaning.

Queen of Hills

I stand at the middle of the lonely corner
It is cold, crowded with numerous footfalls.
clouds and music are exhausting.

A pine tree flickers grey lights on my eye,
birds with their rose-tinged tails scramble on the trees.
pink, scarlet, mauve- flowers explode in the sky.

Habib Mullick and Oxford Bookstore invites mist 
and heritage along with the tourists.

At the corner of the distant bench, the yellow shirt 
takes the hands of the red cardigan on his lap.
their whispers rise and are hung on the lamppost.

A few lights flicker on the shacks down the slope.
unexplained smile and rumpuses resonate all around.

I take a stroll around, staring into the windows of the shops.
Bhutia market is replete with effulgence, anecdotes, and stories
Life is what it is, says the queen of hills.

The late afternoon is sublime now in its deferred state.

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