Bio:
** ISSN 2475-1359 **
* Bilingual monthly journal published from Pittsburgh, USA :: рдкिрдЯ्рд╕рдмрд░्рдЧ рдЕрдоेрд░िрдХा рд╕े рдк्рд░рдХाрд╢िрдд рдж्рд╡ैрднाрд╖िрдХ рдоाрд╕िрдХ *
Three Photo Poems by Gopal Lahiri
I measure my steps near the yellow floral sea.
Slow and easy to shake up the stillness,
To concur my wet footprints.
Where are those woods, I think I know?
The shadows start screaming for silence
beside the bright blossoming flowers.
At the edge of the Anemone morning
I fold my palms and then start meditating.
I stop to hear me breathe or is it a whisper?
The resolutions fade in the rising sun,
splits me like the flakes of mica schist,
I carve them in my own image.
Let myself sink deep, until I get carried away.
The remnants are here, there, and everywhere.
…………………………………………………
Two Sentries
White clouds above the blue mountains are
devoid of words; they gather, they withhold
the unlikely rain.
I stand on the green slope, two arms
outstretched, mouths stay open,
Will my eyes blank out in the lid less eyes?
I drift among the mossy rocks and pebbles
like a wind that is strong and has more teeth
than anything I can imagine.
My mind is full of nothing but joy
nobody else will see except the honeybees
down there where a stream edges through.
The two trees stand like silent sentries
invoke grey clouds and downpour falling,
falling in my dream, where green leaves bleed.
…………………………………………………….
Haibun
Savannah Ghost
Out at the Forsyth Park, a yellow bird sits on the fountain and wets her wings. The pale sun immerses in the fading horizon. It is just a summer afternoon. I see your curved face beside the Spanish-American War Memorials. You click photos with your red mobile phone and smile unmindfully. And the body is wrapped in white dress. I want to go near you. But then you suddenly vanish at the end of the Lincoln Street.
Later at the rooftop of my guest house, under the watchful gaze of night stars, You come again and drop your hair like Spanish Mosses and wait for the half- moon to rise at the eastern sky behind Lucas Theatre. The thin night winds whisper the clock time. You start narrating the ghost stories and about the gravestones. The Town Ghost Trolley stops at the Andrew Low House. The whole moment is now floating there.
moon light
giving shelter to the ghost
from my shadow
…………………………………………………….
1 comment :
We welcome your comments related to the article and the topic being discussed. We expect the comments to be courteous, and respectful of the author and other commenters. Setu reserves the right to moderate, remove or reject comments that contain foul language, insult, hatred, personal information or indicate bad intention. The views expressed in comments reflect those of the commenter, not the official views of the Setu editorial board. рдк्рд░рдХाрд╢िрдд рд░рдЪрдиा рд╕े рд╕рдо्рдмंрдзिрдд рд╢ाрд▓ीрди рд╕рдо्рд╡ाрдж рдХा рд╕्рд╡ाрдЧрдд рд╣ै।
Subscribe to:
Post Comments
(
Atom
)
Excellent poems, Lahiri ji
ReplyDelete