Poem of the week: Week Twenty Seven.

The third poem for the month of July from Indrajit Hazra’s poetry book Twentyfour Poems. This one is my favourite from the collection mostly because I can relate to it.

Diary Entry, 28th June
Indrajit Hazra

When I think on what is to come,
An ant ponders over my neck.
When I feel it with my spider fingers
It becomes a spider.
I smell impending doom
Like perpetual cigarette smoke
With all my screwed up courage,
I cannot tell myself, life is a bad joke
For I am reminded constantly
Of the bitter tragedy
Dogging at its heels.
But self-pity sincerely nauseates me,
And all I can do
Is hope
In a very canine manner.

There is nothing in the world
As uncomfortable as irrational hope
But then
Hope is irrational.

My head pains in the middle.

I sit amidst flowers and trees
Here in the Subhash Sarobar park
Thinking unhurriedly about my future.
In the shade
I may be the poet,
But in the glare of the spotlit world,
I am the successful failure.

A motorcycle staccatos
With the birds,
The bicycle chains
And men’s voices in the background.
Even I have become a background
In my ears
And in my eyes.

There are butterflies.
There are spiders around me.
For a moment the sun is silent.

There.
It laments again.

I leave this garden
While sweethearts roam this beautiful territory.
Living a decent life
Is no laughing matter.

***

 

 

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