> Creative > Poem
Knock, Knock, Knock
Knocking at the dead of night
Mother looked at the son, son at the
father
Father at his darling daughter
Not to worry, he shall return tomorrow.
Just a little matter of questioning
little matter of questioning
Questioning, mother murmured.
What is happening? What?
Mother brought her eyes down,
Father looked at his darling daughter,
Daughter said; there is questioning
Questioning, whispered the people.
Knock, Knock, Knock
The people gathered around into
crowd,
The people became crowds
And said: There is questioning
Yes, we want to ask questions
The pigeon on flight
the sun of silver necks
the sun of golden necks
No one suspected
She would be chosen
of the Goddess
No one thought
the streaming moon
would suckle the earth
It was the blind boy
Who flew the pigeon
and stuck in its beak a blade of grass
putting his eyes in the light of hers
he was groping for his lost….
O dear me!
On this stone god
the mother poured a pitcherful of water
Offered betel nut, flowers, sandal paste
the stones emitted vomit, spit and cough
and a host of fleas
You only emit
and leave around shit
O my blind god,
prove it
prove it that the boy too was stone
burnt out coal
that he was a flea
At the day break
The trees stretching out their leaves said:
We want poetry
Poetry
Playing with fire
In the anemic world
The child slips down from the hand
The mother takes no notice of that even
Incessant lightning outside
and
still you want poetry
Poetry?
I play with fire
Even today
As the bird forsakes its feathers
As the tree forsakes its seeds
New feathers grow
New seeds sprout
And there the light spreads out its looms
‘Light o light’ shouting and shouting
Barmaina went out this road, never to return
Like the morning star, O mother
A decade disappears in the apples of my eyes
Like the fire burning out in the hearth
At day break
Each red eye like a burning ember
Keeping its eye on my eye, says
Haven’t you got the smell of blood oozing out of my wound
Haven’t you seen my body drenched in blood?
I am the ‘chandaal’ watching each corps in the cremation ground
My heart is burning with fatread
Rise, O rise warm your hand on the embers of my chest
(Translated from original Assamese into English by Prabhat Bora)
Slowly and slowly
The misty apparitions surrounded the masturd flowers
like the flames of fire
Each star melts down to the apple of the eye of mustard flowers
The moonlit night was lacerated
in the soft plenty of the mustard flowers
In the spring of the sleepless night
the exhausted fingers were sharpened
to sting
The flowers inflamed
with each touch of hungry lips
where the sweat and soil joined
We shivered silently
at the smell of the blooming flowers
Slowly and slowly
The dewdrops were descending
The clear crystals of moonshine
like the springing grasshopper scattered
over the fleshly bosoms of the mustard flowers
The mists trembled like the frightened guzzles
In my subdued heart fresh seedlings
nourished tenderly
the mustard flowers as though a cluster of flowers
Navigations 
Quick Contact
Subscribe Us
Quick Mail
