Bridge to Global Literature

Let’s all remember that more and more poetry gets lost without earnest attempts at translation.Read poetry here to get a glimpse of the rhythms and resonances of languages you don’t know.

Poems by Saptarshi Bhowmick

Aug 13, 2021 | Poetry | 3 comments

A Round Moon

After several soggy days, it is a full moon tonight.
Anticipating a climatic change, I left my door ajar,
Though little does it change the monotony?
Not a single night we spent in this house without rancour
and I am quite accustomed to it now.

Today, while I was doing my bed
a China Vase, fragile as it is,
shuttered into pieces near the dining table;
and I heard poison, spilling from the mouths,
targeting morals and ego again.

Thus the moon seemed more round to me
than it was, before I was born_
Here!
I might have remembered it or had felt it before,
from the inside of the_
Womb!

__

Gloom In Air

I was in a morgue,
at least I think it was, morbid and solitary.

Morbid in a sense as the embalming tables
rattle echoingly, creating a somber hallucination;
also those cold lockers carry vessels,
that once life forgets to breathe in;
Exhausted, propelling bodies,
each with surmised dreams and goals,
never thought to end up this way,
packed up, etherized and motionless.

I remembered I am the air,
inviting the gloom in this room, wandering, though still.

Still in a sense as no action excites the realm,
a pin might fall and would create a voluptuous sound.
Again, the floor rumbles when a new inhabitant
finds home here, or when a resident pasts its purpose to stay.
Useless, ominous habituation,
where nobody believes viability to perform,
nobody looms to be competitive,
only deducing demoralized state of life itself.

As I crawl along the walls, I know,
outside that door (of mortuary), there’s a world, which
ultimately ends up here, in the same way.
And I will follow up their gloom as always.

__


Loneliness

On foot, I walked the distance
it takes to return home.
My workplace being in town
and home on the other side of human livelihood,
I venture through the pastures.
As sun sets, the mosaic blue paints the sky
and the day’s toll fatigues my senses.
I recall when the dahlias greet me,
“Welcome home”, it captivates time, to an extent
that it forgets to remind me how late I am.
But I know there’s no one at home.
Only loneliness awaits my footsteps when
my key clicks in the keyhole;
and a total darkness, darker than night
crawls back into the corridor
to jump back at me,
the very next moment I would step in.
So as no actions retain me, I grace sleep_

Lying down, staring outside,
I can hear the lights illuminating the streets,
while the moon takes a break for an another day.

__

Saptarshi Bhowmick is a thinker in his twenties, currently lives in Berhampore, India. Locally he is famous for his bilingual poems and Internationally he has been published before. He came from a region where writing is considered a symptom of lethargy. But he strives to hold his pen and wrote a significant number of poems. If you take a little time in considering his poems, you will understand what his poems truly speak. Previously Published in The Rainbow Poems, UK’s Remembrance Editio, Tofu Ink Arts Press Spring Edition, Finalist of the Bipoc Issue of Wingless Dreamers.

3 Comments

  1. Sudhansu Desai

    There are 3 poems,by counting.So beautiful and soothing! ❤️❤️❤️!!!I am Saranya Ray,son of Sudhansu Desai’s daughter, Manisha Desai Ray.My father, Subhrajyoti Ray is the son of Adyanath Ray.My maternal grandmother’s name is Kalyani Patra Desai,daughter of Urmila Patra.I study in Don Bosco School,Liluah in class 2.Please write and send more poems.On weekends,I will show them and sooth my entire family even after Covid-19.This soothed only me and my maternal grandfather. ❤️

    Reply
  2. Sudhansu Desai

    So beautiful! ❤️❤️❤️Send more please to soothe my family!!!

    Reply
    • Saptarshi

      Thank you, sir. Surely send you more, later!

      Reply

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