Poetry: Braja K Sorkar

Braja K Sorkar

Indian Summer

Not April,

It's May, the cruelest month;

Indian summer's a terrible demon     

Burns in and out of time.

A heavy cyclone is getting ready  

In Bay of Bengal, rushing to downfall with 

Cheeta's   speed on this land of masses;

A heavy shower is in pregnancy

But a devastation awaits 

And nothing else.

Roads are deserted, only a handful of rag tag men

On work, while I keep myself indoor all day long.

Small plants bow down on earth, burnt alive,

Only a Tikuma tree stands alone with yellow flowers 

At the entrance of my home like an angel,

Like an unfamiliar godless summer in May.

***

Let evening come

My friend, a philosopher and a critic

And a good writer as well

Shall come to me today.

We shall have a whisky tonight.

An evening with his sharp intellect.

He would tell a new story of his aged wife,

Who may call him while we would be in the dark

And   would try to divert him from 

Our evening party 

In an off the cuff unusual manner.

That is not all about our mission.

I like to play an old piano, that rests for years

At the corner of my study room. 

I like to sing an old Hindi classical song

Of bygone era; nobody ever listens to me

Never knows me as a singer 

Except a lone mirror that hangs on the wall 

Inside the forlorn washroom…

Let him come today

Let the bottle gape its mouth

To kiss us, to kill our useless IQs. 

A wilderness grows 

Within the dark of our bodies.

***

Idea 

            

A mere idea does not work.

From homo sapiens to modern man, they spent

A lot of time to birth a useful idea, experienced more 

And, learnt the secrets of success.

To make a fire I did not have any idea;

Gathered   stones and dry leaves since

Childhood, saw many   autumns and 

Burning of gray manuscripts of winters,

And I played with ashes in the morning.

Poetry, as people imagine, are not simply feelings.

Said a poet a hundred years back.

I am a nowhere man, searching in and out of debris

My soul and ideas of different colors and shapes

Are getting ready to explore in the dark of my Body.

It is not unusual to make me a clown 

For he knows the art of making fire 

For he performs with his usual ideas

Growing endlessly like a fire which 

Makes him worthy of success.

***

Drawing a Cat

                          

Drawing a cat is not an easy task.

I tried time and again

Sitting between a cat and a hanging wall 

In my   drawing room.

Cat is a prehistoric animal I understand.

Through the ages, cat remains same 

Unlike a Neanderthal ape.

I draw a line perpendicular to the surface

Of the mirror passing through the centre

And the cat does not bother about it.

Man is a peculiar animal –

Whispered the cat!

I stopped drawing immediately.

Slowly the cat comes forward 

Kneels to the mirror and begins to laugh. 

***

All day long summer skies get burnt 

It burns flowers and plants

It burns my heart and soul like a 

Furnance in Steel making shop,

All impurities we have burnt to ashes.

***

Bio: Braja K Sorkar, a bilingual author, translator, editor and critic from West Bengal, India. He published 10 titles in Bengali and one in English poetry, titled Syllables of Broken Silence. He edits a prestigious Bengali literary magazine Tristoop for 23 years. Recently, he launched an international English literary journal, titled Durgapur Review. 

He chiefly edited with others an International Anthology of World English Poetry, titled Voices Now: World Poetry Today.  He also published a collection of Assamese Poetry, translated into Bengali by him. Braja K Sorkar is a registered translator, associated with National Sahitya Academi, New Delhi and other government agencies.

He is a regular contributor to various literary magazine in Bengali and English. Besides, he is the chief of Tristoop Group of Publishers, West Bengal, India.

 

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Setu, May 2023