The Things That are Left & Other Poems

This Side, Alone 12322465_991613440896943_4003452324251139831_o

The tune makes a suspect

Whether it is ghostly enough

The household mimics

I set the debate on a tree-top

 

It gets fruitful

Hey…

Who else mesmerizes all day long

Tell me, who else is there except you

This journey from who to whom

 

Water overtakes the veins

Obliterate these healing nerves if you can

O unknowing, take me to your wonderful unknowing

 

Bring me to your passion face to face

A Vacuum

These to and fro in this path

These comings and goings become epic

We hanged them on the wall, we forgot

We were to drink some water

Yet got stuck and stared at the framework embroidered with thirst

 

Stared at from the perfect mistakes

As if eyes of the sculpture would become alive

 

You have seated in such gaze

That’s why its dead branch likely to fill vacuum

Reincarnation and Sex

These are diverse provocations of the hills

Simple things folded with a ribbon

Here, even you walk by imitating shoes

Such reincarnation that can’t be described

 

Sounds of an unearthly woodcutting about to begin

Veins of sex about to sound

The piston up and down inside

Abandoned houses even long before humans

Someone familial is searching with a raincoat

 

Such reincarnation you can’t describe

The Things That Are Left

I insert myself into my shadow

Within the cage, music’s world and world beyond

And all that other pouring

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The bird couldn’t give a full flight

Old feathers fly

Bird loses here and there every now and then

 

If I didn’t come I wouldn’t know

How do the little coins sob

How does the old wizard steers his boat

 

My own death-wish tells me to grow up in the sun

The Half

The picture opens up but fully not

The half of a leg is bent from the window

Light falls on perhaps quite meek

As if someone is doing a trick, not stretching it all up

 

We suppose that moon is crawling

The man will go out just now buttoning his shirt

WhiteBlack

Days of North South lane generations. So, mostly dark. In the slick opening of neighbour’s window I see a bucket of water overflows. Cups-dishes. And I play some music in my room as though the sunshade doesn’t get wet. Apparently I keep alert in such way. Those wasteful days…

Sex is like the bi-lanes only

Extinguished if light comes through

 

Songs play in the neighborhood homes

Songs of desert

 

Water knocks tenderly

 

I do nurse its every finger

One Bad Writing

I see that I am being gossiped132580_168026729902539_7718513_o

In the colony of words

The extent of borderline and vices

that loom in the character’s map

here and there, sticky

 

My neighbor words do suspect

Whether anyone wipes off the ink

 

How promising is a bad writing

No one can understand until you don’t look at its movements

You can’t understand how much breath it exhales

into the wall of its neighbor words

 

About author

Sanghamitra Halder
Sanghamitra Halder 1 posts

A Bengali Poet and non-fictional prose writer. Born in Kolkata, 1984. Studied Master of Arts in Bengali Language and Literature. First poem published in 2004. Till now she is the author of three Bengali poetry collections, NAAMAANO RUCKSACK (2010), DEERGHO-EE (2014), HEY EKTI SAMBODHAN (2016).

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