Two Poems . . .

 

 

J A Y A N T A  B H A U M I K

 

IN THE DISCLOSURE

 

language tiptoeing where your habits wrestle with your fussy heart
you let minds eavesdrop how you dare accept the proverbial
miracles twitched or etched on the skinny wishes on holidays
the essence of love you know why we wait for because we know we
can say it rains nevertheless

when rains grow in their juking patters, the baby cries once more
inside when rains scatter themselves to the limit of cries, the inside
melts to become a worldwide womb in a country filled with voices,
how a silence is knotted well inside a body weighting songs –

meanwhile, the ferryman talks about his boat never carrying the
country’s yucky pencils about those broken heroes, their eyes
denuded in the shinning mimicries about the banned, unrealizable
wonders about everything called in only once what we fear we
may lose, belongs with a teaching of the Native Buddha

from the ferryman’s village, the teaching flows – the way you whistle
out a tinderbox the way a praxis creates sons and daughters as I start
start trusting in the name of an endless omen my stars waiting for a
a mouthful of rebirths in the next generational sky the way you learn
loving your old ewes or rising from a fact of moonlighted weariness

language, a bent in legacy my children fitting into their wide deafness
their body of silicates their inky smiles like hieroglyphic clouds
gathering in the lonely carefree for everything has a way to be lost in
the language when a time finally found speaking on both sides of the
open palms just to prove it sometimes takes long, long years to close

 

 


 

IT’S A POETRY NOT ABOUT ANCESTRY OR FUMBLING

 

Every grandfather unfurls a backyard look. His tree, a forgetfulness
you see dropping its dry leaves one by one from that tree. His legacy,
at least one quandary you know so indispensable, otherwise you’ll be
treated as fruitless by the remnants, by the soiled, engraved in succession

The kitchen is that’s why so substantial, without a holiday. Always ready,
even if there’s no rain in the city of joy, sorrow, trouble, cold-war, catechism
or liposuction or vistas. Even if all the bars reject an extra peg, she is
somewhere prone to explosives. There is a street, everywhere in the world,
leading to either a priming or a hotspot

When the wishes came back home, we gave them our speechless children.
Our time stuck at the everlasting cul-de-sacs of our body. Our spare bones.
Our daydreams saved under our riverine nights. When the politics begin
with the moons, we cling to all but the pits of our mindfulness, like those
backlogging star-lights doing the same at the universal beds of blackhole

Cut to the scene where you are again at the frills of your age,
fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, sizeable numbers decoding a possibility made
up of an ancestral lint. Before we know we can use, we stitch the hunger
for happiness, weaving the stomach with a grey tapestry. Before I complete,
a line again there to break a gull-necked vase of poetry, – it says, it has
a new punctuation never used before pickable / portable; I wish I could
use it to reset a synonymous distance, another inch of a lightyear between us

 

 


header image credit: Christian Trachsel, Zürich, pixaby

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