It is pellucid
It is no experiment.
It is no reconsideration.
I hold your hand coded with little moons.
I shouldn’t complain about the slant of the sky.
Or how you tell me about a horizon standing huge
in a comfort while we talk about how the empty
brings the best storytelling for us. About a musing
during timelessness between us. You tell about
some condensation appearing like a new kind
of goosebumps. It is this mysterious sonata,
made and heard a thousand times, nestled in
the labyrinths of an inaudible unknown.
Everywhere, everything, every smile or papery face,
every ambling glee or a siesta, every big or small
gravel withheld for a puny, or long hour, whatever
you keep telling me about:
there’s an ellipsis of eternity missed between us.
Not an experiment, not a reconsideration anymore.
You tell me smiling, I should remember, when a
lightning flashes, a cucumber is served well,
bitten slowly, eaten with a rejuvenation. Somewhere.
If it is enough
It is not a long poetry about the stones
rolling in secret habits. Some habits
secretly tied to our legs overnight.
We begin a stone-route under our feet.
Our legs, in the morning, lapped in the
carousals of shadows cast from clouds
flexing far above. You can choose to see, how
in the crowds, things lose their trust of
being the baggage.
You feel signalled to open the eyes through
the mushrooming of the trodden scenes.
One scenic idea is how to decipher a morning.
Sunlight spreading slow, slow more,
fungal expansion everywhere.
Every morning, a sun up, there’s a new water
for a new thirst. I enjoy such magic of water,
how its globe-sized bubbles taking on
the surroundings, holding, piggybacking every
crust and people’s homes. The distractive of its
hovering around. I name it anew, calling it
music.
It is where
I tell you to look into my eyes so I can
hear the sound of all the arrows shot ages ago.
Many plants’ hard barks, many spirally
hanging boughs, still reaching,
taking part in an arrow’s making.
An arrow slides past.
Right when, an attention is allotted.
I realize the credence:
it is where we all reach.
A nameless here, some day, any day, somehow.
I reach and I then hear: parts of the world
grinded deep inside my shimmering veil.
as I recede back,
outside this hotel room, I find a stone mildly
lying amid dry leaves and soils at the backyard.
It is evening, a time of a celebration,
hollering, hollering, long hour of barbeques.
I leave this stone trying to iterate.
I leave this stone unturned,
hoping it will some day free
an era hidden underneath.
Jayanta Bhaumik is from Kolkata, India, from the field of esoteric studies and counselling, working in India and Singapore. His past works can be found in Poetry Superhighway, Juked, Madswirl, Blue Lake Review, Fourth & Sycamore, Lothlorien Poetry Anthology, Fevers of The Mind Anthology, Acropolis Journal, Amethyst Review, and elsewhere, forthcoming in Version9.
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