About CC

Aju Mukhopadhyay is a bilingual award winning poet, essayist, fiction writer and critic. He has published two books of poems in Bangla and nine in English including two books of short verses (Japanese styles). His poems have been widely published, translated and anthologized in large numbers of Indian and International journals and Ezines in different languages. He can be contacted at ajum24@gmail.com.

1. The Days Pass By

The days pass by

with the quivering sun on the leaves

and the tinkling of the spoon in the cups

with many a domestic tale

like the last farewell of the spring-

the days pass by with soft footfall.

Accepting the warm love heartily

from the one who came offering it silently,

with a huff of the lover who was

refused many a time earlier

the days pass by like the far-going birds

leaving me all alone.

Ever moving from moment to moment

from every point, time remains indivisible

like the unending waves of the sea

with the quivering sun on the leaves.

with many a domestic tale

the days pass by to come back again

with soft footfall.

The golden dust of the time remains

with the air, in the sky, with the breath,

whether it’s me or whoever else that is,

it comes back among the golden ripe paddies

and the undulating grass.

2. The Day is Lost

This opaque and dark evening sky

without a particular hue, defy

the reign of the Sun as it goes to set

and pulls the erstwhile bright warm day straight

into its mysterious unfathomable womb.

Those who rise up with renewed oomph

at the prospect of devouring the evening young

like a familiar song many times sung

sink eventually into its hazy darkness

reeling at night

and those who never look at the hieroglyphs

of the evening sky in obscure light

pulling the day into its hold aright

and the majority of those sheep

who never realize that the day

with all accompaniments is kept at bay

to be lost forever into the unknown fold

of the mysterious sky in spite of its efforts

to survive clinging on to the fragile human memory,

live the useless life of ignoramus

without verve and sense

condemned like a Sisyphus.

The day is lost in the shimmering twilight

in its ever hopeful flight

into the mysterious womb of time

never to be reborn after melting of the rime.

It is a holocaust of time

adorned with rhythm;

night and day

are born for a while to pass away.

3. At the River Bank

And quiet flows the river

without a ripple or shiver

trees stand windless

not even a whiff in space

no leaf shakes, no sound;

fishes are sleeping

sweating fishermen around

have lost all zeal

in the act of rowing

their boats stand still

the water shines like a mirror

naked boy looks at his figure;

the world without a name

halts at the bank of the river

no one knows when it came

none, if it was already there.

4. The Burning Lamp

The lamp was burning golden-brown

in my dark room steadily, alone

no one was there around

flowers bloomed of a mystic hue

radiating my obscure chamber;

when you came to light the lamp

no one knew

no tread, no flash, no sound.

5. Flower of the Future

Unknown and uncertain

are the results

of the mystic bud

blooming unseen

while shimmering hope

is rising up

from the luminous vast

that the flower of the future

in harmony with nature

for a divine purpose

has been opening its petals

from ages far behind

towards a time

peaceful and glorious.