Partha Sarkar

People with dysentery

by Partha Sarkar

They wander in the queue.

They swim in the pitfall.

No, they are not the novices.

They search for a scepter.

They like to carry it

As they are the pissed.

They look blank when they are preached to,

And get over when they get a pittance.

No, they are not the touts.

Only if you ask them –

What is tomorrow?

They scratch their own skulls.

There has been no cooperative system

by Partha Sarkar

There has been no cooperative system,

There will be none

There has been no inborn enthusiasm,

There will be none

It is only death that introduces the system,

The cooperative system at the foot of the pyre.

You may get angry with me

And show this is the . . . this is the . . . " 'ism"

But show I will the different cards that are played

At the brink of the hill

By the fool

And none is responsible

As the puller draws the rickshaw

While out of the car spits the owner—

The biggest destroyer of the embryo.

Goes back toward the talisman—the future

by Partha Sarkar

Goes back toward the talisman—

The future—

The cosmetic surgery

To find the bones of science

And returns with the dry smile of anemia

Yet, does not get surprised the hubbub

Signs on the papers

As tomorrow comes after yesterday.

The broken seashore and the fishermen

by Partha Sarkar

The broken seashore.

An overturned boat.

Yet, clean the vegetables

In saline water the sad background.

Peeps at the meagre morsel in the pot

To see whether there is something left.

In fact, the drowned sailors still

Try to find the sunk boat of the fishermen

To understand the real utterance of the sea

And no waves can deny it.

Once the evenings were happy ones

by Partha Sarkar

An optimist: The time is being improved with the blessing of technology.

Everyone is getting smarter by using smartphones. Computers are running

Faster defeating the speed of a witch with a broom. Medicines are better and

Bitter. Electric cars are flying happily to curb air pollution. Social media is

Controlling the thoughts and imaginations of the people.

A pessimist: Thanks a lot for giving a bright and happy picture of the age. So, I

Like to remind you of the collapses of the banks. Automation plays an important role

To dull the pain of the working class. The words “Retrenchment” and “Hacking”

Have become the known words. The stock market is worth half of what it was yesterday. Global warming sends gifts like natural calamity. Most of the souls

Are getting depressed and stressed.

but

I do not like to draw conclusions—Who is correct?

Everyone has its own mirror.

Everyone is a narcissist.

But say I must that once the evenings were happy ones.

Tremendous explosion and here is . . .

by Partha Sarkar

Tremendous explosion

And here is the vomit of humans—

The eternal confluence of confusion, greed, and wisdom

And is dazzled with an epigram of its exotic clamor.

Nowadays I meet with the oddments of the intestines

While I am on the way with the holy grail to the nest—paradise

To beg for nectar to drink

But cannot

It’s an omnipresent eternal confluence of

Fizz, fetid flab, and flambeau.

But I return home without being confused as

All night the barking will tell me fairy tales—

The eternal epic of light, light, light. . . .

The lunatic equation and the lemon revolution

by Partha Sarkar

The lemon equation.

The lemon revolution.

The drooping jester

And the disappearance of the lunatic fringe

And the scorching heat

And the invitation in the middle of the day

And none can avoid the parallel skipping of the mystical politics

And the torrential river in the Pacific Ocean

And the harbor that wants to meet it

But cannot

As loses the oar with the wind

And there is no salvation.

Gives up the dream of pure democracy—

The purchasing power.

A knife with three wheels

by Partha Sarkar

A knife with three wheels.

(Three dimensions! Three verb tenses!)

A mobile essay.

A carrot hanging into the mouth.

A planet below the moon.

The miscellaneous trashes.

A kneel-down civilization.

The fume of a pyre.

The boundless empire.

The name?

The billboard.

The miscellaneous names.

An awkward riddle.

The ass in meditation.

May Day

by Partha Sarkar

May Day— an obscure

Red sun in depression and

Consumerism.

Procession

by Partha Sarkar

A procession of

Refugees. An eternal

Long march to big zero.

Goes but never returns, every clock

by Partha Sarkar

Has seen the price, the demand.

The small hand has put the basket in the air.

Knows everything, the cursed banishment

But does not knife the skin, the mellow eclipse

As the carcass preaches in the amphitheater

And the butterfly runs to and fro.

But does not care about the disorder

The destination is fixed.

The clock ticks.

The cloak walks with a long attire.

Everyone goes without a return ticket

And the coffin in the air meets the honeymoon

After the explosion.

Where should we go?

by Partha Sarkar

Where should we go?

The lunatic birth

The warmer earth

An oasis is hollow.

The burning hell

Or a floating pit

With severe heat

Melts ore to sell.

But who buys it? No

Answer from face

But sobs in a mess—

A dry circus show

And runs as dead

With a red, cold bed.

You may wheel away but the question is . . .

by Partha Sarkar

The swinger.

The sword.

The pallbearers.

The magnificent banter.

The boundless sadness.

The golden chariot with broken schedule

And the flow of fetid gobs with voter slips

And no sunrise in the barrage.

But should one be sad after the dismal protest from fire?

Everyone knows that carbon is sacred

But not the hand that spreads the wrong spume.

The burnt globe and the pregnancy

by Partha Sarkar

Another glory. Another war.

The clock silently keeps the grave busy.

As usual, the terrific market goes with confusion.

No lamentation in the festival in the morgue.

Here flees a truck (After a while, it will run with ice cream.)

Loaded with cold children.

No, I do not write monody.

I only watch

The burnt globe.

The silent pregnancy

And tell the piano to be played not by the fingers

But with the chirpings in the morning.

Squirrels will come to have their breakfast.

I keep biscuits for them.

Let me drop the last chapter

by Partha Sarkar

Gone are the days

Along with rosy wings.

It is night along with nightmare

And the last train yet to catch to escape the peril

And to go to sweet dreams.

So, I am at the terminus station.

So, let me drop the last chapter of sadness

Until the train comes.

At least, I have to reach home along with the fragrance of tonight

To meet tomorrow

As tomorrow is still living

As tomorrow never does die.

Why shall I commit suicide tonight?

Though the days are gone

But tomorrow is there.

Have you a diluted nation?

by Partha Sarkar

Nobody wants a bag of smoke.

Nobody wishes yet there is ambiguity in the womb

None demand, yet

“We are all peace-loving toothpicks…

We all know that a salted sea is a sweet source of fresh water…”

In Parliament a red pen happily tells the elected skull

When at midnight

Prolonged hypocrisy stops writing its thesis

And, at last, confesses stigma of the glasses—

Dead obscurity and

The mirror on the ripped wallpaper are superior futures

And flies to and from the essence of the bugle.

Then should there be no placid death in the coffin?

The window keeps the promise

And throws the bone into the hope.

Gets every sot in the public house.

Is there any known soul in famine?

by Partha Sarkar

Dirty philosophy

Holding a book

On a bright morning.

Swim if you can . . .

Fabricated mensuration.

The fife for a fragile bubble.

The precocious judges play cards.

What is the time by your watch?

I know there is no telegram for the caterpillar

And know the dragon has no coal for its fire.

Then who will be the janitor for the day?

Look behind malnutrition.

When there is no ringtone

by Partha Sarkar

Fossils of no generations.

No fossils with slough in the slough.

Perhaps there will be no fingers to play piano.

My diary gets sad.

“There are the green pastures . . .

Why do you overlook the green signal?”

Yesterday I met the lodestar and told Him I might go to meet

Posterity to say there would be no postman to deliver the birthright.

He listened and said nothing.

I came back with a deep concern about the seeds.

Will there be no river in the thoughts?

Will there be only a volatile picture of the

Morsel?

“Don’t get upset.

There are a lot of grains that may place the artery in the future,”

A non-violent ringtone suddenly cried.

I wander about in that barren philosophy

And find . . .

A human

A flickering candle with

Lucid intervals.

Partha Sarkar is a resident of Ichapur, a small town of the province West Bengal of India. He is a graduate who writes poems that are inspired by the late Sankar.

Sarkar and his friends (especially Deb kumar Khan) protest against social injustice and crimes against nature. His poems have been in different magazines, both in Bangla and in English.

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