we write poems when our women
turn sixty, like how we write them
about small -big things ,the thread
that passes binding us to an infinity
little things that make their poetry
and mine on the edges of the night.
sixty is a milestone in the vastness
of infinity that stretches before us.
We speak of our photo of woman
Staring at glass table and beyond.
She is a language born and raised
To be lost to a breathless infinity,
The last of the birds in migration.
She is wall that stares at a beyond
And has the murals about all of us.
With good part of the moon eaten
By a shadow of our earth mother,
Just now we espy in the east of sky
Stretchmarks like we find at night
On our mother’s child soft tummy,
And we see him back all of a piece
Grinning behind a waving coconut.
A farmer standing in green cow
Was he a defence against dust?
Not so ancient man drops a sun
As we stand here in green rice.
We are our defenceless ogglers
Of beauty to drop our own suns,
Just trying to fortify our bodies
Against dust by a fortwall of art.
These are not made of effulgent light
That dissipates to the interior of west.
They are made of real earth to break.
Watch made- to- break horse smiles
As their faces break in a comic mirth
Of earth horses expected to fly a sky.
(Bankura in West Bengal is famed for beautiful terra cotta horses made by traditional craftsmen)
A bag on back had news to deliver
News about others’ weighty matters
As death, love , ambition ,happiness.
The way he hurled paper as missile
In your balcony it was very evident
Last named was not on the agenda.
His leg bloodied ,yet his arms strong
Captain soul senses horror of shade
But looks years in the face unafraid.
The years are not afraid in their eyes.
His dust does not bring tears to them,
Only a snicker on the curve of the lip.
(We are talking about William Earnest Henley’s manly poem Invectus)