(A Quarterly International Peer-reviewed Refereed e-Journal
Devoted to English Language and Literature)
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 firstname.lastname@example.org.
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
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.