The restless time
and the fleeing skeletons
by
Partha Sarkar
The horizon—the diluted
dustbin with tremendous nostalgia.
Who remembers? and whom?
The absurd signature of the fossil
though there is
A dawn as usual in the birds’
invention.
The spiral oration.
The peculiar sentiment.
None knows where their facial
cream is.
The fireworks.
The sky is being vivisected.
No blood in the water.
The hooch.
The depression.
The statesmen—The beheaded
hemisphere throws stones into
the spit-pan.
The bay at night.
The tents near the morgues.
The philosophy of ancient lunatics.
The nausea.
The torn stable. The horses have
gone to meet the grass.
When will they return?
The triangle picks the circle
and begins to dance around
the smoke.
No solution to get rid of the
love of nightmare as still we
choose
The rotten ballots who lick the
decorticated mobile set
And chew the dry globe in which
the innocent umbrella
spreads its hand
To shelter the twigs.
But will it be sufficient to bring
meager meals for the
volatile sweats?
No harmony.
Only the sirens in the embryos
play the pianos
And keep the vulgar waltz when
the pale urn gets tired of counting
The documents of the intestines
that disappeared.
Yet if the green tongue wants
to preach in the concert
arranged by
The intellectuals (you mean the
titbits of the service
privy), the tree will have no
objection as it knows very well
that it is the bipeds that
never keep fire alive.
Partha Sarkar, a resident of Ichapur, a small
town of a province West Bengal of India, is a graduate who writes poems
inspired by his brother, the late Sankar Sarkar, and his friends (especially
Deb kumar Khan) to protest against social injustice and crimes against nature.
His poems have been in different magazines both in Bangla and in English. He
once believed in revolution but now he is confused because of the obscurity of
human beings, though he keeps the fire in his soul despite this.
