Saturday, March 02, 2013

We Still Remain Friends Under A Vanilla Sky !

Nabina Das
Author of ‘Footprints in the Bajra’ (novel) and ‘Blue Vessel’ (Poetry), Nabina Das is an Indian author. Presenting some poems from ‘Blue Vessel’, her debut collection, Les Editions du Zaporogue, Denmark, and cited as one of the best poetry books from India in an article by established poet Sudeep Sen. here you can experience her book ‘Blue Vessel’ : Being Poet
Jeanne Moreau’s Song
Written on the body
the whirlwind hits the car after
the three of them visit a park
The spinster Saraswati, a jaunty scholar
(I forget his name),
and a bard called Purnadas
The men eat lunch, wink at her
we don’t know exactly who gets into her car
One man does, because she has something to show him
either a song for Purnadas
or a book for the writer-scholar
One of them keeps watching
as they ride
and he hums the song she sang once
in her forked tongue mischievous
I finally finish writing this letter:
so you know why after songs are sung
we separate and forget, yet reunite
why we don’t go home while we
still remain friends under a vanilla sky.
Water on Ink
(Kilokri, Delhi)
Shadows quarter the rain
You’re wrapped in yourself
The street flows on. Slivers.
Faces squiggle in ivory ink
Bush-birds stare at our eyes
The slants hurt similes. Slow.
Kilokri wets her palms
Streetlight on the henna
Night needs a mirror. Whole.
She word ties her hair
Petals think, slowly fall
Morning drops its step. Quiet.
All sketches on water by ink
All words on lines by language
All these un-fairy faces are I. Me.
Othello’s Path
Butterflies dropped dead from branches
where they never grew
Dewdrops of nights that stifled dawns
lay on your path
Or were they tiny handkerchiefs
outlining a long sorrowful track?
White of course
Black with guile
Wordsmiths called
it green, envy
But when the foliage died
no one was left to pry
So, don’t walk that path dear Othello
don’t wipe your eyes with
Those thunderstruck fingers, they’ll teach
you rage and us a loss forever to linger.
This blue on my arm
a lonely nail mark
to see it turn
to a dirty fawn
of neighborhood trash and dump
is sad like standing in the snow
or being in a car circling
a street corner over
and over again
not finding
the right door
the right you
right on the eyebrows of a dream
this sudden what-to-do
this is new
faces at the coffee shop
arms over glass counters
these are never you
also the blues and blacks of pages
are always words from far beyond
and yet
suddenly it all reads like a sign.
Somewhere, Circa Unknown
I, and the slither-skin we shed
over peels of our limbs’ compost,
will go down, slow, perhaps bow
and see from the worm’s belly view
the leaves gone sepia and slight
I, also your face in the frames-
names we gave each other
in March’s mellow grace, may stare
at the vernal bloom’s trickle anew
in the drains beginning to flow
I and your new hands of flesh
will cradle our lines, one by one
tune them fine for a rousing show
with notes that play only under
water’s roll. Then suddenly for us,
curl-warmed beneath house-steps
someone will leave a flower one day
A bicycle bell rings.
The vroom of the car
or vacuum cleaner.
the saint-beggar
bends on his broken ek-tara
Strum strum strum.
children run in the shuffling
wings of park-sparrows.
clotheslines wait, droop
in the forever sun.
Music by the River Side
Eyes of dry berries, they looked through my skin
down by the river, the ferries’ honks they sang
sat with hands folded and legs tucked inside hulls
their mouths playing tambourine and drum
going tra la la la over the city clouds in photo frames
cheeks of papier-mâché and their nails new moons.
When do you see your little one by that river, we ask
when we gather around the memory pit, deep and dark.
Their hands play a line and the elbows on the strings
they don’t say a thing.
They say
tra la la la la.|
They go
tra la la la la.
Their rapture. The tin-band men from my past.
Searching that light, that room
his hands were on mine and the light was green from dawn or perhaps the cooing of his mouth. he’s a baby and i’m a baby, only his legs are taller than mine and hands are on the buttons of my head or heart that i have not yet learnt to recognize. in the green sheen of the deadened day light I searched for my mother’s eyes which he had not brought along on his front-open shirt front and we lapsed. we counted jellyfish on our buttons and fingers and let our baby-mouths gape at half-light of happenings. I’m a child of the shadow, i said, and at that he seemed happy in his virtual grace. a tv screen throbbed in front of us, one of us searching the remote and the other who had found the grip. a dog barked. a video cooed.

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