"The Torn Collar Shirt"

The torn collar shirt,
which had stood by through everything,
is now thrown away.

Yet it still lingers,
used as a mop.

Like an old grandfather
lying on the charpoy
in the corridor,
standing guard over the house.
He wards off strangers, monkeys, dogs,
but no sound comes from his mouth;
only a whisper slips forth.

(From my collection of old poems)

Silent River*

The river flows in whispers,
Past the stones that knew my name,
Carrying fragments of old songs,
And memories that will never stay the same.

Beneath the moon’s soft silver gaze,
I wander through the corridors of night,
Where shadows speak in gentle haze,
And hearts converse beyond the sight.

Time bends, yet refuses to break,
Moments linger in the silent air,
Every choice, every small mistake,
Becomes a star in the cosmic glare.

So let me drift with the river’s hymn,
Between the worlds of dream and awake,
Where life is fleeting, edges dim,
And every breath a vow I take.

What’s the matter?
Today you sit quietly.
Shall I say something nice,
that’s why I sit silently.

Seeing the poverty of a poor man
pity rises,
sympathy stirs,
the heart grows restless.

A wish is born
to reach out,
to do something
for him.

Because he too
is a man,
in the fragile skin
of human beinghood.

But by the time
the twenty-first century arrived,
he had grown cunning—

how to cheat the passer-by,
how to trouble the neighbor,
how to seize the resources of the state,
and if not,
how to ruin it
for his own amusement.

Instead of becoming a good citizen,
he learns to be selfish,
to move through society
like a shadow of opportunism.

Now, his poverty
stirs no pity,
only fear—
and a curse also slips
from the lips.

If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.

If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
remember
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.

Not that it was beautiful,
but that, in the end, there was
a certain sense of order there;
something worth learning
in that narrow diary of my mind,
in the commonplaces of the asylum
where the cracked mirror
or my own selfish death
outstared me . . .
I tapped my own head;
it was glass, an inverted bowl.
It's small thing
to rage inside your own bowl.
At first it was private.
Then it was more than myself.

How heavy the days are.
There's not a fire that can warm me,
Not a sun to laugh with me,
Everything bare,
Everything cold and merciless,
And even the beloved, clear
Stars look desolately down,
Since I learned in my heart that
Love can die.

History is nothing—
a window fixed
in the wall of time,
showing partial truths
and hidden lies,
seen by some,
missed by others.
@Tapan Susheel

The tree has entered my hands,
The sap has ascended my arms,
The tree has grown in my breast—
Downward,
The branches grow out of me, like arms.

Tree you are,
Moss you are,
You are violets with wind above them.
A child—so high—you are,
And all this is folly to the world.

My hands
open the curtains of your being
clothe you in a further ******
uncover the bodies of your body
My hands
invent another body for your body.

I am afraid to own a Body—
I am afraid to own a Soul—
Profound—precarious Property—
Possession, not optional—

Double Estate—entailed at pleasure
Upon an unsuspecting Heir—
Duke in a moment of Deathlessness
And God, for a Frontier.

The night is darkening round me,
The wild winds coldly blow;
But a tyrant spell has bound me
And I cannot, cannot go.

The giant trees are bending
Their bare boughs weighed with snow,
And the storm is fast descending
And yet I cannot go.

Clouds beyond clouds above me,
Wastes beyond wastes below;
But nothing drear can move me;
I will not, cannot go.

You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I'll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I'll rise.

He tried to spit out the truth;
Dry-mouthed at first,
He drooled and slobbered in the end;
Truth dribbling his chin.

I am the family face;
Flesh perishes, I live on,
Projecting trait and trace
Through time to times anon,
And leaping from place to place
Over oblivion.

The years-heired feature that can
In curve and voice and eye
Despise the human span
Of durance—that is I;
The eternal thing in man,
That heeds no call to die.

For we have thought the longer thoughts
And gone the shorter way.
And we have danced to devils' tunes,
Shivering home to pray;
To serve one master in the night,
Another in the day.

Never marry ******.
Never pay a blackmailer,
Never go to law,
Never trust a publisher,
Or you'll sleep on straw.