Saturday, December 31, 2005

With vivid shout

With vivid shout the newborn annum
cries in the phrase of the biting wind
she's coming out!   she's here by damn!
uncork the bottle!   let's begin!

Let rise upon     the raging air
the pull of joy   in oral scream!
for silence loves   to feel her hair
constrained by fresh   & vocal dream

This responds to Arka Mukhopadhyay's worthy poem.

Friday, December 30, 2005


There’s a smile hiding somewhere,
I just need to find it…
Sometimes it disguises
Itself as a little teardrop
that falls with a big splosh….
I chase after it on big red buses
and sometimes just about catch it
on the corners of little gift shops
or lovers’ lips kissing in bliss…

Sometimes it won’t come to me
no matter how hard I try….
perhaps I could find it in a friend
perhaps all I need to do is try…
Lingering over a glass of wine
raising my knees and resting my chin
I stare at the flickering candle
and somehow it slips through the chinks
when I am not even looking for it…!

Happy New Year!

A leaf glistens
shiny with hope
Tremulous but sure.

A gelato burst
of dew at one spot
Tiny but momentous.

A flower opens
large as a mouth,
Joyous as morning.

Butterfly song
stops you mid-thought
You begin to wonder.

A rakish moon
twirls his whiskers,
cavorts with clouds.

The benevolent forest
looks on, indulgent
It is older by aeons.

Night turns prettily,
flags a passer-by
to ask for directions.

Intensely fragile,
the new year falls
gently upon us.

© anindita sengupta

Friday, December 23, 2005


I like to think of divinity
not as gods or demon shapes.
I find it revealed when,
in five exquisite steps,
Euclid with his Attic ken
sees his primes to infinity.


Thursday, December 22, 2005

Low-technology   [sonnet #2]

What is it I presume I might be seeking?
the joy of meeting   or the pain of absence?
the universe conceivably in presence
is grounded   but it's not as if we're peeking

behind the famous screen   (opaque & deep)
whereon the film's projected   low-technology
by what perverse (indeed macabre) ecology
our little life is rounded with a sleep

the body we embue with daily waking
this instrument for focusing the vast
entirety of everything at last
we loll about & feed it   are we making

    full use of   so preposterous a tool?
    a lens for wise   a haversack for fool?

Wednesday, December 21, 2005

On a Writers' Forum

Bacchic words dance to an ecstatic tune
In this rendezvous of writer and bard
This enchanted space where we commune

The muse sometimes smiles; each poem is a boon
In the ideal poker hand, the perfect card
Bacchic words dance to an ecstatic tune

Rhythm, metre, character joyfully hewn
An anguished love of style, all strive to guard
This enchanted space where we commune

What if the humming birds never sang again
What if the Sistine Chapel melted to a shard
Would bacchic words dance to an ecstatic tune?

I would light you a candle for your moon
And sing you a flock for your boulevard,
This enchanted space where we commune

Bcause nothing must stop the flow of the loon
When it throbs among rushes just beyond the yard
Bacchic words dance to an ecstatic tune
In this enchanted space where we commune.

© anindita sengupta

Tuesday, December 20, 2005

Wintery Paradox   [sonnet #1]

For you alone   my mouth is filled with words
for you alone   my mind's aflood with thought
my tree desires nothing   but your birds
whose music is my happiness   the naught

that winter brings   (when birds & flowers flee)
the absence   now occasioned by the cold --
this principally   brings no concern to me
except to the degree   it serves to hold

your absence   implicated in this closing
your silence   in the swirl of all this dark --
as if you too   were subject to (supposing
you mortal)   winter's stealth & deathly mark

    my heart cannot accept   the visual lie
    my empty branches murmur   to the sky

Thursday, December 15, 2005

Finding Abel

I could not, could not stop it,
The shadow growing from his feet
Spreading its wings on his outstretched arms
Falling like a shroud on his uplifted head,
I could not, could not stop it.

Then came the silence
As the lamb bled on stones bled on desert,
Hellish silence that rode on the storm,
And tore the sky apart with a thousand wails
That ended the silence

I could not, could not stop it,
And now the cries of lambs don't stop
And now they drag me into a golden earth turned red
The keeper of bones, the keeper of wails,
And I cannot, cannot stop it.

Monday, December 12, 2005

Winter Blues

Same time a year ago, snowy driveways,
frozen roads, icicles on naked trees,
for several dreaded despairing days.
I dreamt of July and a summer breeze
as the dreary darkness wore out its stay.

But even through this darkness bleak, I sought
a break in time. I did not want these days
to end, ’tis the passage of time I fought.

And so it’s true of our fondest wishes:
Of highs, of moments of joy unsurpassed,
that trail gloom toward weary finishes,
where we choose to let go or to make it last.

Awaiting seasons’ ends and new tomorrows,
we watch each sunset with immense sorrow.


(For B.)

I’m early, by the look of it. Ushered in by the writer
I walk in, find a chair under a discreet light,
glance around. A few women scattered, brighter
for silks and cologne, and the air-conditioning’s bite;
a camera or two, a handycam adjusting his grip tighter,
and the mike man setting his knobs right.

On a table, the author’s labour lies in piles, neat
and inviolate till autograph time. A coffee drum,
cups and biscuits stand unbroached, complete
as still life, inert till the others come.
There’s no sign yet. I park my bag on the seat
next to mine, thinking I could do with some.

And return to wondering why I’m here. Bored,
I pull your precious Larkin out, grateful for the gift,
plant a surreptitious kiss to serve both adored.
Somewhere voices louden, as the guests drift
in; a speaker says something, words obscured
by accent. I revel in the librarian’s thrift.



They wandered in the wilderness in a solitary way; they found no city to dwell in. - Psalm 107:4

It is now a time of silence, a time of darkness,
And still you wait
For words to seep into the grave
And resurrect you.

But how will you know what you awaken to?

To wander mute thru the desert,
To blinding light,
To be devoured by whispers,
To be burnt by memories of other words?

Do you still want to wake up?

Now as you wait
For the words to enter your silence
And fill you with a fearful music,
Awake, and ponder what you've lost.

A peaceful slumber, a promise of dawn, hope in mirages...

Tuesday, December 06, 2005

Sunday, December 04, 2005


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