Poem of the week: Week Twenty Eight.

And the final July poem from the poetry book Twentyfour Poems by Indrajit Hazra.

Hollowness
– Indrajit Hazra

Stare aghast
You blank wall face
And see me spin in oblivion.
What dreams I had
Melt in melting pot of reality
And sand.

That you may clap
My misdeeds past
And see my body bare
And seek refuge in my eyes
Crater twins of doomsday domes
Blinking
Drinking the world afraid
Yet not afraid to die.

Childhood cooks up bloating wants
white wishes
And pink desires.
All that seems a faded froth
Too ill to wade,
Too sick to bathe
Still unable to succumb
To plastic deaths in pillar box
So still,
Too still to lie.

The use of knowledge
Grows bankrupt
With every skipping time ahead.
What news can there be for me?
Which blind man’s point
That I appoint
Will make me choose my life
Tumble,
Lose my balance fall
And wait to hit the ground?

The hibiscus dies in the painted pot,
The headless chicken runs
The night sky
With its false window panes
Slowly pales the sun.

***

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.

***

 

 

Poem of the week: Week Twenty Six.

Here’s the second July poem from Indrajit Hazra’s poetry collection Twentyfour Poems.

Mumbles
– Indrajit Hazra

In the crooked bent world
With asphalt tar-coat road
At times I sense embrace
Sweet perfume sinful rattle,
To nudge you by my side.
But wicked devil hell cloud
Go soft like glacier, fjord;
The death wish
No death can wish for,
Life,
The living cannot afford.

And when the twilight shrugs away
And night falls like heavy lid,
At times I see a hollowness;
Imagining I fill
Fingers interlocked to grip
False fantasy,
False palm to palm.
My body lies
My mind stays true
Like pain after a whip.

***

Poem of the week: Week Twenty Five.

And finally, I’m posting poems for July in the right month – well, almost. The poet for the month is Indrajit Hazra and poems will be from his poetry book Twentyfour Poems. 

And I think I’ve found the perfect first poem:

Monsoon
– Indrajit Hazra

A monsoon drips through the picked sky.
Warm July can rest on its back now
And let the saline drips patter.
“Rise Lazarus,”
In wet hushed tones
Comparable to silence
With bullfrogs butting in.

The streets inch up
Rising garbage water lake.
Tomorrow be born
In showered night
Not ready yet
Still far too shy.
Wading through the city slime
Half-opened buttons let in the drops,
Those slanting rains
Of prancing clouds
Of dancing pools
Of puddled sounds.

No, I won’t sidestep tonight,
Nor tiptoe on,
Nor return to cover as the prodigal son.
I’ll walk on drenched
Demented
Mad
A parched piece of barren land
Smiling at each rain-beaded face,
While the beast
Carries on its swirl.

***