Sharmila Ray is a poet and non-fiction essayist, writing in English and anthologized and featured in India and abroad. Her poems, and non fictional essays have appeared in various national and international magazines and journals. She is an Associate Professor of the Department of History at City College, Kolkata. She has authored eleven books of poetry. She has edited a bilingual anthology of American and Indian writers-Bridging Continents with Gopal Lahiri. She was on the English Board of Sahitya Akademi (National Body of Letters, Govt. of India), Conducted poetry workshops organized by British Council, Poetry Society of India, Sahitya Akademi. Currently she edits English poetry section of Darabar Jaiga, a noted Bengali journal. She has been reading her poems in India and abroad. Her poems have been translated into Hindi, Bengali, Urdu, Slovene, Hebrew and Spanish and Uzbeck. She has received many awards for poetry. She has been reading her poems in various National and International Poetry Festivals.
Poem Infinite
Your poem
My poem
Our
poem
transform
my exile.
Like
shading pencil they create design
to
merge now with the past.
Ecstatic
I breathe its fragrance
taking
each word that poured out
of
the heart to invent a red dress,
where
clouds pass without rain
and
azure-rose landscape embroider the hem.
From
distant lands other poems zig zag and
fall
upon the dress to create a pattern.
The
sentences wet reflect other skies, legends,
drowned
cities and scattered stones on the shore line.
They
lend a texture to the dress.
Wearing
the dress I plaster myself with word-smoothie.
As
if this was not enough blizzard of words settle on the dress.
They
change into Japanese cherry blossoms and
Pissarro’s
‘Bouquet of Pink’.
I
know they are ephemeral
What
will remain are only memories to be born again
to
be renewed,
to
be regenerated.
Bliss
Mesmerised
Rini
walked along.
Along
sharp stones and pink white shells. It was beautiful.
She
wanted to organize the weather, stuck arrows into rain clouds and suck out the
rain. Her throat was thick with passion and she felt the wind on her waist.
She
walked along…
Suddenly
the moments became very private and words, there was no need. It fluttered,
flew
and
then dropped
at
her feet. Anything and everything was no more distant than a breath in and out.
How
long do you think this lasted ?
There
was no answer
only
river
voices
railroad
whispers
wave
after wave unending…
Copernican
Space
Down
moist sounds I recapture frames-
Soft
undulations of the mind holding enigmas.
Christ
strolling on the Riviera
Amrita
Pritam on Wall Street
Neruda
and I drinking coffee in a small bistro.
obscure
history of the Gangetic plains and Gypsy vocabulary,
all
are fragments to create full story, half story, unsaid story
on
the Copernicus Space.
Maybe
someday they will metamorphose into reality
waiting
for a new century to decipher.
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