“A late November Rain, in Calcutta”
The washed terrace of my home at seven –
from last night’s tumultuous, steady rain
that woke me up with its sharp thudding sound
as if several women were pounding grain.
A fleet of chirping birds flew past overhead
as if in withdrawing the blanket of night –
that couldn’t see the trace of day through haze
wrapped around Sun’s attempt to raise the world.
Yellow, pink, red Jaba flowers look in disdain –
at each other’s crushed frames on slender stems
that still stand erect in vehemence, looking up:
defying the rain to pelt and crush their resilience.
The wet cemented floor, an exhibition of artwork,
in water puddles seeping in cracks and crevices –
each creation an enigma to read your desires
as in a poem one weaves their own experiences.
A fleet of birds now settled on a nearby rooftop
seem as a castoff blanket – of years of desire
that has culminated into a soul crushing betrayal
of hope, worshipped long as an icon of true love.
But beyond a dark haze of lethal painful rejection
there’s the Sun fighting to reach out with a love
that has also been banished and serially crushed
by nights that are an epitome of beautiful delight.
Awake all night, in listening to the steady rain,
after daylong reflection on painful circumstances,
has cleansed a putrid souls debris to set it out
on track, to resurrection for Sun to find this heart.
PS: just typed this first draft on my phone now, but sharing my mood as of this cloudy morning…while I await the ISBN on my new book of poems…please visit my facebook author page Across Borders and website from my bio☝️
“Poetry is the opening and the closing of a door, leaving those who look through to guess about what is seen during the moment.”
— Carl Sandburg