Autumn Moon Read online

  Friend,

  Where were you

  for so long?

  Choices

  In the wilderness

  of my muddled mind,

  demons of everyday problems,

  hound the poor poem.

  Wrapped in her tattered rags

  the poem comes to me,

  panting and dazed,

  asking for shelter.

  Ah!

  the demons of everyday problems,

  and the honour of a poor poem.

  Earrings

  In the azure

  dome of the night,

  someone is playing

  on the tanpura.

  The river

  of translucent glass

  clinks against the banks.

  The reverberation

  goes on forever.

  As the lamps stare

  with blinking eyes,

  chandeliers hum

  a heavenly tune.

  I have plucked your voice

  and worn it on my ears

  like a pair of earrings.

  Anjal

  When the telephone rang

  at midnight,

  I tore myself

  out of the coverlet of sleep.

  From the hazy other end,

  an unfamiliar voice

  drifted down to ask,

  Are you the poet

  who writes poems for Sona?

  What if my name be Sona, too?

  After a long tenuous silence

  she said,

  Please write a poem for me.

  Weave me into

  a small verse of yours,

  in the name of Anjal.

  May be this is my last night,

  and this, my last wish.

  I put down the phone

  and went back

  to my tattered sleep.

  After all these years,

  when I remember that night,

  my eyes cover with mist.

  It was only much later

  that I had discovered,

  dear Anjal,

  that you used to

  sprinkle my poems on the fire

  of your cancer.

  You had hoped

  pain would cure pain.

  Sky at sunset

  Standing on the seashore,

  I have always seen

  the molten red-gold hues

  of the evening

  dissolve in the dusty waters.

  Standing on the seashore,

  I have always thought

  that sometimes

  I'd collect in my palms

  the glow of sunset,

  and ever so stealthily

  paint your cheeks with

  the molten red-gold hue

  of the evening.

  Battle

  Red blood drips

  from the sun's wounds

  and flows from the horizon

  unto these silent shores.

  The sun's rays take in the dust,

  shadows flee.

  In a while

  the moon's flag of victory

  will flutter in the sky.

  Once again,

  the night has

  won the battle.

  Once again,

  I have lost today.

  Barren woman

  No sparks fly

  in the frigid body.

  Sighs emanate

  from the throat

  like snapped threads.

  Bubbles congeal

  in the ice-cold blood.

  Sleep has frozen

  in the stony eyes.

  The numb night beside me

  lies like a log of wood.

  No sparks fly

  in my frigid body.

  It must have been

  a barren woman

  who gave birth to me.

  House

  In the rolling valley

  beyond the empty spaces

  where misty winds rule,

  stands the rickety house

  which I inherited.

  Plaster peels off the walls

  like scabs from healing wounds.

  The pillars stand exhausted

  on their ageing feet.

  Bricks hang loose

  like worn-out teeth.

  Windows sit askance

  like twisted limbs,

  their glass panes

  cracked and hazy.

  Once they opened

  into the skies.

  Now they won't open, even

  into the stifling room.

  Surrounded by soiled clouds

  and tattered winds,

  this is the house

  my ancestors had built.

  And I am destined

  to live in it.

  Eyes

  It is in your eyes

  that the morning

  dawns on the horizon.

  It is in your eyes

  that the night

  shuts like an oyster.

  Your eyes—

  are they two devotees

  kneeling in prayer?

  When you raise your eyes,

  your look resonates

  the wet sound of temple bells.

  When you lower your eyes,

  now sad and pensive,

  the call for prayer ends.

  Your eyes ——

  are the genesis of creation.

  Your eyes ——

  are the absolute meaning of life.

  Refuge

  I have been wandering

  in space,

  among the stars and planets

  like a beam of light

  caught in dust and smoke.

  I have been wandering

  for ages

  like a tumbling moment

  torn out of time.

  I found my homeland,

  but continued to wander

  looking for the alley.

  When I found the alley,

  I wandered around

  looking for the house.

  I have now lost myself

  wandering the expanse

  of your body and soul.

  Hold me with your eyes,

  Support me with a kiss.

  If I am born of you,

  may be,

  I'll find a refuge.

  The poet who was

  He was a quiet soul.

  He spoke incoherently.

  With his eyes on his ears

  he could hear the sound

  of mute silences.

  He would gather

  the shadows of the moon

  and drops of dewy light.

  He rustled in his palms

  dry leaves of the night.

  He would pluck moments,

  raw and ripe,

  from the forest of time.

  Yes, the strange poet

  would wake up in the night

  and crawl up to kiss the moon.

  He fell off the moon

  and died.

  Some say,

  he committed suicide.

  Burial

  How quietly

  some people die here.

  In their cold bodies,

  curled up inside

  dark, dingy graves!

  There are no sighs,

  no sobs, no movement.

  How quietly

  some people die here.

  They spare others

  the trouble of burying them!

  Body

  Cold islands of clouds

  float in the sky.

  The fire red horizon

  melts into the stream.

  Space stretches itself.

  Sunk in your arms,

  I float free.

  A hundred bodies

  have flown out of me.

  I am unhooked

  from the burden of the body.

  Past

  This was the bedchamber

  of His Majesty the king,r />
  said the guide.

  Over here were beds

  studded with gems.

  On these windows

  used to hang

  curtains made of pearls.

  Count the holes

  on the ceiling;

  From them hung

  nine hundred and thirty-five

  chandeliers

  which shone throughout the

  night.

  And what nights!

  There were festivities

  of poetry, wine and dance,

  on an expanse of

  expensive carpets

  brought from Iran, laden on

  seven hundred and twelve camels.

  The days and nights

  of the palace resounded

  with peals of laughter,

  like melodious notes

  from the tanpura.

  Those were the days.

  The guide moved on,

  dragging behind him

  the flock of tourists.

  I stayed back.

  All alone.

  With only the screeching

  of a lonely cricket

  to keep me company.

  Damp

  It has been raining

  since morning

  in a monotone.

  Sad and gloomy.

  The sky drips,

  drop by drop.

  The spray hangs

  like a soaked scarf.

  Everything is heavy

  with dense dampness.

  Moist memories

  of dejected moments

  keep dripping

  from the drenched mind.

  It is only

  in the fatigued body,

  that my breath

  stokes a flaming fire.

  Another day

  An empty carton—

  opened and ripped,

  slammed against the wall.

  Frayed and frazzled,

  beaten up', kicked about,

  trashed and wrecked.

  An empty carton.

  Like an empty day—

  useless, colourless,

  meaningless, nameless.

  The Moon

  This music session

  is long since over.

  The instruments

  have covered their faces

  and gone to sleep.

  Cobwebs of darkness

  hang from the canopy.

  The patch of moon clings

  to the skirt of the night.

  Hope

  When the arid desert

  gets a heavy downpour

  from a cloudburst,

  the sands quiver for long

  in a tingling passion.

  With a feeble hope

  that the barren desert

  might some day,

  sprout a sapling

  and bloom with motherhood.

  Bonfire

  A cold wind blew

  throughout the night

  as we kept

  the bonfire alight.

  All night long.

  I collected dry branches

  from the past.

  You picked up the leaves

  of spent moments.

  I took out

  my withered poems.

  You opened

  the faded letters.

  I wiped off

  worn out lines

  from my palm.

  You brushed away

  the dried wetness

  from your eyes.

  Whatever emerged,

  we consigned

  to the flaming bonfire.

  We blew into the flames

  of our bodies.

  All night long.

  To keep the bonfire burning

  .

  All night long.

  We warmed

  our waning relationship.

  Poem

  A poem is entangled

  in the heart.

  Lines trapped on the lips,

  words flit about

  like butterflies—

  they do not settle down

  on the page.

  I have been here

  for a long time, my love,

  having written your name

  on the blank page.

  Isn't the poem done?

  Can there be

  a better poem

  than your name itself!

  Permanence

  Nothing, but nothing

  is forever.

  Days and nights

  fall like dice

  on the chausar.

  Months and years,

  slip through one's fingers

  like sand.

  All is but a play

  of light and shade.

  Nothing, but nothing

  is permanent.

  I am, the only one.

  Permanent.

  Who keeps changing,

  every moment.

  Last night

  Last night

  dewdrops fell

  in a slow mist

  on the closed lips

  of the delicate buds.

  In the intimate

  bed of flowers,

  under the scarf

  of the blue night,

  the dewdrops gave wings

  to fairy tales.

  A pair of twin souls

  swimming in the gentle

  chaos of the heart,

  weighing the sky

  on their delicate wings.

  Last night,

  it was a full moon.

  Last night,

  dreams were luminous.

  Last night,

  I was with you.

  Ecstasy

  When two balmy bodies

  lay together in a close embrace;

  When breath entangled

  in whispers of eager lips;

  When cold rain lashed

  the far away shores;

  When only souls

  were awake;

  Where was I?

  Where were you?

  Messiah

  When my shoulders stoop

  on this long journey;

  When I grow weary

  walking steep slopes;

  When my breath falters

  tangled in the heart;

  When I am afraid

  I will collapse;

  My little poem

  appears before me,

  holds my hands

  and says:

  Poet dear,

  come,

  lean on my shoulders,

  I'll carry your burden.

  Bosky—1991

  I did not see Time

  come and go.

  I did not see

  Time passing by.

  I did not see

  Its revealing face.

  I only saw It

  piled on Itself.

  Maybe, It had come

  tiptoeing like dreams.

  Even my thoughts

  didn't realise Its presence.

  When Its eyes dawned

  I kissed It

  without knowing who It was.

  I had heard Its

  hesitant footfalls

  in the baby's prattle.

  I had seen It when the baby

  cut her milk teeth.

  Lying there, wrapped in silk,

  I did not realise

  it was Time piling up.

  When I took her

  out of the cradle

  and put her on the bed;

  When I touched her

  with a lullaby on my lips;

  When bangles changed

  continuously on her wrists;

  When books passed

  through her hands;

  I did not know

  Time was piling up.

  I did not see Time

  come and go,

  I did not see

  Time passing by.

  I only saw It

  p
iling up.

  This year,

  Bosky will be eighteen.

  Untitled

  I take the beatings of memory.

  It lashes me

  whenever it finds me alone.

  When the sky shuts down in

  the night,

  merciless memories tie me

  with chains of pain

  and choke me

  in the liquid darkness.

  I did not know,

  desire captures and auctions

  slaves.

  I am a slave of my own memories.

  *I am an Urdu poet, but I do try and write in Bengali sometimes, since I love that language. The above is a translation of one of my Bengali poems. Perhaps, I could title it ... let it be.

  Sunshine

  A golden sun shines

  on floating islands

  in the cosmos.

  The rarefied mist

  has slipped aside.

  Your face

  quivers in my palms.

  The morning cupped

  in my hands.

  A soft refulgence

  courses through

  my whole being.

  I have drunk in

  the drops of light,

  which had slipped

  from your radiant soul

  and suffused your lips.

  Space Travel

  A million suns

  strewn like fireflies

  in the flood

  of fumes.

  A silent firmament

  of cold quivering space.

  Distances spanned

  in light years.

  The space traveller

  of Pioneer-10

  flits through the universe;