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.

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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