Spring, 2022 Issue: Poems

6. Humayun’s Tomb – Smitha Sehgal

In the yellow alcove of desire 

Humayun curls his tongue of verses

A leaf around unripe apricot summer of 

Consort’s mouth, 

Wasps have exchanged 

Night shift with Palace guards,

Empty flutter of 

Potbellied pigeons in shadows insist on wearing masks

Noncompliance shall invite detention in 

Bonsai garden, they say, distractedly

In the days you have been asleep in your tomb

Laws have undergone numerous amendments

No fault of ours 

Breathing and Lovemaking

Amongst prohibitions

If you must know, Schedule 1, order 5, Rule 22,

City is under curfew by a manmade Virus 

Her eyelids heavy with burden of wars

Lock with his, Missionary position 

Parrots screech on the ancient trees 

Darting poison arrows across the dimpling lake

In the shadows of her womb quivers

Last of the Dynasty- the one who never forgot To gather verses in the summer of Exile.

7. Life’s Paradox – Srijani Dutta

In the circle of gain and loss,

The hungry, in the dustbin, searches for

Leftovers

Whereas the farmer stares

At the cracked soils.

She like a snail

Procrastinates

Whether to come out

Of her shell or not,

Sunrays make a patchwork

Of handlooms on her body

Reminding herself

Of its subtle artistry.

In the world of hit and run,

The coins I place

On my palm

Takes the shape

Of a marooned soldier

When the moon agrees to shed light on it.

Within the maze of chase and pause,

I let loose my hold on the kites

But I catch the train to go Somewhere else.

8. Dusk – Suchita Parikh-Mundul

Dusk is to watch clouds dissolve 

into camouflage, to watch vapour rise 

from hot plates, maybe in candlelight, 

when eyes are fireflies 

and lips are soft tomorrows.

Dusk is a feathered sleep

migrating night-wards 

with a promise.

Like everything else, 

dusk is an ending

and a beginning. 

9. The End – Tali Cohen Shabtai

Look, my father

the road is becoming shorter

there is no sense that will change what is coming!

That’s why I’m preparing a nice note for

a sudden farewell,

see, my father!

Man must make

provisions

for the transition between life and death–

this is purely necessary wisdom,

it makes no sense to

rise early for the morning prayer

and a few hours later

to already be

in burial shrouds

and to eulogize

the mourner’s prayer – here we need a ritual

of differentiation

that will distinguish between

the profane and the holy.

In this transition between

life and death when I tell you

that our road is becoming shorter, Father.

Shortening

There is no option! Even if I suck on

The Lord God

and shed blood

instead of semen

for one of us,

the path is becoming shorter!

10. Nocturnal Trucks and Parabolas – Uttaran Dasgupta

She can describe her climaxes as graphs: some are

       an acute curve (x is pleasure, y is time),

like ululation, some are flat, but travel far;

       and a rare one is sin (x) — it’ll rise and fall and climb,

sporadic like nocturnal rain:

       crests, troughs, Ring Road flyovers breaking the flat notes

of a soporific truck driver. That strain again:

       mohabbat karne vaale kam na hoñge[*]. Her throat

is a purple hibiscus, a white harmonium,

       a well-oiled roll-top desk. She makes sense of zodiac

charts — no vaccine can prevent this opium

       infecting my blood: the aphrodisiac

of aggressive driving, take-no-prisoners road rage:

       I dream I’ve drowned in the Meghna sprouting from her knees

I dream I’m eating the ashes of a god’s outrage

       I dream a burnt-out factory, stainless steel trees

“Can we allow ourselves a mid-morning break?”

       This unthinkable licence, this anarchic scheme:

The azaan of the Hauz Rani masjid will wake

       us, the AC compressor drown out our screams.

---

[*] From the ghazal by Hafeez Hoshiarpuri:

mohabbat karne vaale kam na hoñge

terī mahfil meñ lekin ham na hoñge

(You will not lack in lovers

Though I’ll not be there in your mehfil)

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