Volume 4 Issue 2, June 2020
Special Issue for Indian Poetry
the days struggle
in the courtyard
the darkness sounds steely
spoken words linger
the whisper travels fast
the hidden stories
in the breeze
torn pages flying
in search of answers
in the corner room
the mirror sketching
dialogues are now in
From across the canal
The mountainous silhouette come and go
In a halo of clouds,
Haphazard high rises hugging the shore,
The dense and fertile lava-land
Dishing up delectable local produce.
Images of slum dwellers and smoke of old factories,
A retelling of a modern nightmare,
Where poverty segregation and doziness hold sway,
In this curious time capsule
The old man on a donkey in a narrow dingy lane,
Sketching strange figures,
It is all about
Script your unforgettable dream.
There is a plenty of craft in twilight clouds
Relentless in creating magic
Energy never dipping,
Entropy has now become a leitmotif.
Ignoring migrainous grey cloud
The evening blossoms
In eerie milk like fog ambling across the horizon,
The crystal-clear night sky is now ubiquitous
From every angle.
Knowing how much salacious and
savage can time be,
For a period that witnesses the
Shift from the past to present,
Hidden stories draw on a cache of scripted letters.
I Still Love
I have kept in my hidden box the exosphere,
a place where the cerulean air recording
stories of the distant past.
From where I live and take breath,
It’s impossible to fathom the depth and spread
Of the mystery and magic.
Let the glass windows open up
Lighting up the stars and galaxies and wipe out
The anguish and miseries.
There is no scripture to tell me the right path
Still striving to know the difference
Between sermons and love songs, religion and terror.
I promise I still love and desire the spilled
Sun over my naked skin and bone
Of my coming back to you again and again.
Let us not fight over the yellow border
A grey evening have sewn stich by stich our love
Unlock the lips in a slow motion.
I still love, I promise I still love.
One of us hurrying to cover up fear
I read lying down- your inland letter
Eyes blinded in wariness,
Find myself alone looking on the mirror
My past is gliding like fallen leaves
Slowly in silent sighs.
We sleep uncared on the wooden floors
Forgotten behind the concrete wall,
Our hands rags like torn feathers
Caress the white window panes
See the left-over moments in front of
The barricaded apartments.
We always have a love stored in the iron chest
may something end now, we do not know
those dark drops of yours and mine
before the raging storm
Barely touch our buried fingers,
I call out your name, only the days flicker out.
About the poet
Gopal Lahiri was born and grew up in Kolkata, India. He is a bilingual poet, writer, editor, critic and translator and published in English and Bengali language. He has authored nine volumes of poetry in English and seven volumes in Bengali and jointly edited two anthologies of poems in English, a book on selected songs of Tagore translated in English and published one translation work of short stories of Israel. His poetry is also published across various anthologies as well as in eminent journals of India and abroad. His poems are also translated in French, Spanish, Bengali, Hindi, Punjabi and Urdu. He has been invited to various poetry festivals including World Congress of Poets recently held in India and also participated in various poetry readings and panel discussion organised by Sahitya Akademi in Kolkata, Manipur and Dera Baba Nanak, Punjab. He is the recipient of the Poet of the Year Award in Destiny Poets, UK, 2016.