Fleeing the Scene

Heart and lungs ached beyond mortal endurance as he fled, and heard with dread the footsteps behind him,seemingly chasing after him on the dark country lane.He cursed his own folly for having given in to a panic which as a veteran practitioner of the dark arts of espionage and assassination he ought not to have experienced let alone given into so cravenly.

He’d gotten there late in any event,long after the three others had commenced partaking of the sumptuous repast.And natural inquisitiveness,especially from Marlowe, had caused him to recount as plausibly as he was able the reasons.He realised this was more to put the other two, Poley and Skeres at their ease,for they too were more than a little anxious at his, Ingram Frizer’s tardiness.With formal,gentlemanly apologies now aside,he partook of the repast with uncommon relish.

His ride from Walsingham’s residence out here to Eleanor Bull’s reputable lodging house here at Deptford was far too hastily arranged and improvised for Frizer’s own professional liking.Scant planning and the gift of one of Walsingham’s own blades that had seen action across the water in Holland were hardly compensation enough for his disquieted demeanour. What was asked of Poley, Skeres and not least himself would  under more reflective circumstances been rejected as too hasty and open to failure.

But Marlowe the scribbler. the critic nonpareil,the one who shared his outrageous opinions with all and sundry;those who would listen and many more who heard them because of the timbre of his prevailing larynx,proved alluring enough for the three of them to go ahead with the bare bones of Walsingham’s idea

.With the sumptuous repast coming to an end and their bellies and spirits satiated with Mistress Bull’s copious wines and ales;the boisterous exchange of opinions both large and small took an inevitable turn,one that Frizer was alerted to wait for as patiently as need be by Walsingham himself. The turn that came when Marlowe, ever the disputant, could not hold himself or his temper so fused by imbibing,back from the precipice he himself was allowed to carve.

 Afterward,standing in front of their Master Walsingham ,they would all remark how so like one of Marlowe’s or indeed Master Shakespeare’s stage plays with its own cunningly crafted directions for the players it all seemed to unfold at the time.Which of course was a lie,as Ingram Frizer, his heart and lungs fit to burst on this deserted country lane in the pitch black with hell hound footsteps behind him,knew perfectly well.

He had to come out of this mise-en-scene more alive than that poor sod Marlowe whose last look in this passing mortal sphere was one of sublime incomprehension.And as his loping strides brought him ineluctably to the stables at the rear of the tavern by the bridge and his silken tradecraft let him deftly unhitch and ride off on a stolen steed back to Westminster with his report of mission accomplished- his mind conjured one more illusion.

What would Christopher Marlowe write of this night in one of his plays?With the footsteps heard on a dark country lane receding far, far into the background Ingram Frizer let his imagination roam thus:-

 ” Four figures in a room darkly conclaved,hushed breaths escape from the mirrors’ taut embrace.Leaving no trace of having been expelled from any mouth nor orifice so plain that might betray the breather’s fear.
Malice aforethought alone leaving imprints in the air amid this spectral scene. A coven’d place where meaning and word
intertwine where shadow and light danced their furtive Pavane,
Swirling about,word without meaning,meaning without form,form without content into an empty shapeless void.And in the dimness of guttering candles, the trails of reason evaporated and in the morning to come a new naive horizon bearing a false dawn. “

Her

SOMETHING I LOOK AT-34
BY-SMRUTI RANJAN MOHANTY

I know not how much I love her.
Should i call her the bone of my bones,
the string of my heart,
the pupil of my eyes?
I have no words to offer,
similes and metaphors awfully inadequate
to express her true grandeur

In her my past and present,
in her my future and fulfillment,
in her is salvation to all my worries,
in her the panacea to all my ills,
in her the answer to all my vexed questions,
in her lap is my heaven,
in her smile my lost paradise,
in her eyes the whole of my life.

In her i see beauty personified,
charms agglomerated.
With her scintillating beauty and unmatched elegance, she is always there to hug me with all her heart.
My love is she,
my village,
the soul of my soul,
where i truly live.

copyright@smruti ranjan 2017

Image+google

O captain! My captain!

O CAPTAIN! My captain!
Our fearful trip is done.

Is it? Is it that life is a skip
that flows with the wind?
How timorous tomorrow is
when things seem to shamble?
There is no shore that completes the core,
but a part of me that beseems abhor.

O CAPTAIN! My captain!
Our fearful trip is done.

No rejoicing for today, no devising for morrow;
but blues that makes the spirit strew and sorrow.
It’s too unfair to leave the pages unturned
and think about the unsaid and undone.
Melancholy diffuses the potency to ponder
soul halts with the obscurity to yonder.

O CAPTAIN! My captain!
Our fearful trip is done.

Mehak Gupta Grover

Metropolis

Stark geometric lines
intersecting clean marble
and steel;
horizonless concourses
deserted entrance halls,
empty corridors
vacant escalators
ascending,
descending
in relentless
progression;
Walls hyphenated
with reminders
to purchase,
to consume
bellowing mutely
into the void;
shimmering platform mirrors,
clipped automated announcements,
data screens streaming
their silent prophecies;
Inexorable arrivals
whooshing
and rumbling,
debouching into
the gleaming Now
of a glass-towered
morning amid its
awakening rage
there on
the bench
face down,
his skin again
punctured,
no-one.

What ever happened?

What ever happened…

What happened to us?

What happened to our future?

The dreams seem so infinitely far away.

Days are going to fill weeks; yes months and years.

Every night they are born again in endless pain.

Come here and lets try it all again.

Perhaps it’s just the scream and the echo of the past.

To remember…

To do…

To hold…

To never let go

What happened to us?

The dreams we printed into stone and silicon.

Weeks pass by, which fill months and years.

Every minute we look back to a safe haven.

Come closer to me again.

You seem so faded in your light.

Maybe it was because we promised words we could never keep?

So now we can’t see what’s us.

What ever happened to us?

Fight…

Honestly…

The ideal …

Fearless in fear …

What did you and I like?

Are we in any way alike?

We dream to dream but far to quickly.

Months pass away, yes years and forever in oblivion.

Each step takes us a bit further away.

Come and tell me that it wasn’t just a dream.

I no longer feel your gentle touch cover my mind.

There is no way I see you as before, or I may have gone blind.

I reach for you for a very last time to feed your dreams.

But what ever happened to you and me, my heart keep screaming.

It must be another person’s touch now really making you dreaming.

Shall we?

And if a guest
Arrives

Shall we accost him?
Or
Shall we not,

After a year or two
If he comes with
a fair beam

Shall we adore him?
Or
Shall we not

Though we have
brought to end
all relationships,
Though we have
left everything
All through the two years-

What if we accost him,
What if we adore him,
What if we reconcile
with him again,

Shall we not do it,

Ah! Shall we do it,
Or
Eh! Shall we not

Enticing is it,
Enticing is it
To welcome him
in the tenebrosity
of wasteland
again.

My Love

A LOOK AT LIFE-41
BY-SMRUTI RANJAN MOHANTY

I know not
how to live without you,
how can I die
when are you not around?
My love! be there
with all your passion and grandeur
till I breathe my last in your lap and
lose me in you forever.

It seems
since time immemorial
we are with each other
but time has come for
one to bid farewell
to the other.

The single entity we are,
a single pair of eyes to
look at the world, a single heart
a single pair of ears to feel life
and smell its fragrance.

All along I am with you,
feeling me in you
and you in me,
enjoying and enduring each moment
of our joy and sorrow.

It aches when a single entry
cuts into halves,
the soul is made to leave the body.
It deeply pains when you
leave the special one you love
all alone
to fight the battle of life
on his own.

You know
I can not live without you
but you can live
though there will be
hardly any life in you.

In between you and me
there is a thread of love
which will be there
when I will be no more
that love and longing
will make your pain endure
and let my vermilion shine
with all its colour.

Be sure my love!
I am always yours
always with you
forever,
here and hereafter

copyright@smrutranjan 11.7.2017

On a Sunday Haat

O

On a Sunday haat

I’ve seen a girl

Sixteen or so,

Selling vegetables,

With a wow child on her lap,

Scrambling for breasts.  

The girl dithers,

And fears the male eyes,

They aren’t her suitors,

All busy gentle clients,

Time is money,

And not a minute more they spare.

So what’s the choice?

Some faces are known,

And many strange,

A festival day she calculates,

And looks sideways,

 And tears asunder the door of subsistence.

Beginning days were hard,

She was shy, and timid,

And knew not the ways of the bazaar,           

Day by day,

She counts coins,

And becomes bold.

So she wars with the lusty gazes,

 And thumps her baby

Under her sari,

And the child gropes and scrabbles

And sucks her mother,

And she flashes.