Author Archives: gopallahiri

About gopallahiri

Gopal Lahiri, a bilingual poet from India, has been writing poetry for more than twenty years. He has had five poetry collections in Bengali (mother tongue) and five collections in English. His poems appeared in print and electronic publications worldwide. He is a regular contributor of poems in several poetry web sites and magazines.

Step by step

Let’s leave the morning sun and move forward

The nature can show as if more vibrant,

Some barren, some green patches, some rat holes

to take it into our soul, think if you will,

not to wait for the saddest dreams,

Then and there, the tiniest sounds, the stench

Water dripping down the drain pipes,

Canal water bubbling up through the gutters,

Sweep them all away, shadows are thickest,

Nothing to do with the warehouses and factories.

Searching way across, evening has taken roots,

This again? Yes or no, a narrow windowsill,

Step by step, one by one, in a twisted heap

Cooing birds, scurrying cats with their blue eyes,

should we equate odium and love?

To fear nothing, how strange it will be?

Night has fallen, the tree grows taller

A coated moon, a single leaf, a sheath,

This pathway, this barricade as black as ink,

Allow to go by, to passing safety at the end.

Secret

Not your whisper

But rather your loud voice

Is the secret-

A fibre that never lasts

Never seek the new label.

A voice that carries echo

Become silent before you hear.

That is perhaps before you

The signs of struggle

Between two stars.

The skies are empty,

Bleed blue colour,

unsoiled memory slides past

erasing slowly our senses,

And at long last

The edges of dark night shrink,

there is a harmony in the universe.

Shadow

Shadows, whose faces are there?
missing the known vowel,
beneath water,
the wind break out in savage laughter,
the coast takes a sharp turn
for the rugged cliff.

like an advanced wave
so near me
rolling on the yellow sand bed,
the words in Helvetica fonts
burst into tears,
melt down slowly in lower depth.

in you, I never see my scarred face
under light and shadow,
we wonder where to look
standing at bay, on the broken crustaceans
I cannot hear you talk
about the storm clouds and dying sunset

Foxtrot

Blinking inside
The green water of the garden pond
And the beautiful curve of the moon
I am not the same,

Your face, a brick field
Spewing fire and venom to burn down
The joyful moments.
Under the summer sky.

The cherishing moment
That has lost something
From its root,
Animate the chasing starlets.

Night’s waltz,
There is beauty in the dance
Not touched yet we wrestle
With emotions and explore all along.

The promise is sinking through
The soft glow of the jelly-eyed sky
Before the solitary moon
Comes back to claim me.

Loneliness

that night with the crescent moon

You say

that’s what I want in life.

We see, we laugh, we cry at the end,

no message to preach!

a blank page!

strangely, we do not have a word for sunrise

so common for one and the same,

Your thoughts up there.

the early morning raga

in your sitar strings

struggles between song and sigh.

sooner or later, equalises us all,

the word loneliness,

that can never protect us.

Night beyond

Night beyond

It’s all about night beyond the muted voice
The music now clipped into the wall
Do not cry
For it may not work.

Let’s shed our thick skin
Raise the voice. Fight fire with fire
Not burnt out within!

Come all this way
The exchange is stable
War is fought by people not weapons.

Your words have more life in them
Million faces, million smiles.

Then and now

Not much left to talk to
Who knows what will happen now?
Is it me or you or both?
Evening splits into select two.

Lingering behind
The look of a frozen night
A little insecure,
In the softest silver light.

Altering the pieces of fun-cubes,
My responses have ended.
You said in silence,
Only Caged and sadly tamed.

The tired, wounded moon
Sailed over the pools,
Filled with images were
The distant shining lagoon.

My eyes looked into yours
Where tear dripping rain,
In the illusion of grey clouds
Was it really now or then?

.

The Wall

Scrubbed its walls, deconstructed,

people can slip through the cracks;

escape with only sadness.

a stack of six burnt chapattis

roofs scorching black

from the cooking fire,

empty sacks of flour

filthy water in a mug, cold,

at the edge of the garbage dump.

a squinty eyed rickety woman

scratching her old wounds,

numbed, scarred.

stick to her side

bloated bellies, blank faces of children,

sucking their thumbs.

pungent smoke fills the dirt lanes,

frozen moonlight on a small trough

melts slowly in despair.