Jaydeep Sarangi

A Window

I was searching for something
since I was someone’s son
someone’s husband and a lover
a friend, a teacher and a father 
an entrance, perhaps
an exit, might be
whiteness of remembrances 
spaces within where eyes could hold
something like a window. A wooden one.

One day, she called me a window
the walls grew thicker as I counted the years more
high speed horses and poems of desires.
In the season of cold, a priest’s forebodings on papyrus
insane stories and small rivers die enticing an asp.

My wails touched  the deaf brick walls,
passed  the basins of the green, forests and bridges,
never found something like a window to hold. 
After an elongated pain, a touch solely stays. 

Into the First Cold

“The owl goes not into the nest of the lark.”
                                  ---  Salvatore Quasimodo


Before me now a framed picture lies—
a  little shadow of Juliet’s balcony in Verona
with the dawning grace, little slant;
of scholarly wisdom on her strong  eyes.

I sit in the park where old men and women 
search for their shadows growing somewhere.
Looking at them I realise my clothes are out dated, 
my habits are not sharp like surgeons, athletes on ground.

I wait for the chisel of the mind, seeded rarely.
Immersed in the lover’s pride, hardening the heart
she finds her own daily schedule in mirrors, the rain’s choir 
on pink curtains, my friend gifted her from Jhargram.

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