(9 poems)
by Partha Sarkar
It has showered symbolically, just before
It has showered symbolically.
Has returned home the boat leaving
The sultry warehouse.
Has returned the necklace made of moonlit silver.
Yet there is a skull in the wetland.
Yet suffocates the silent embryo.
‘Be calm…be calm….’ A downfall in the sleeve.
Then the questions:
Who goes upstairs leaving the backdated ideologies?
Who comes downstairs following the backdated calendar?
No answers
Only a sound
Slides off the delivery boy and dies.
‘Open the door…the delivery boy….
Let us enjoy our bastardies…’
A cold voice at the tower.
To the comrades who are obsure
The afternoon is not grey –
it is still bright.
The day is gone
but not lost.
But gone are the words.
The faces gone.
Where is the warmth of those rendezvous?
Long ago…
evenings without fire,
but with dreams.
Mornings though foggy,
brought the meagre breakfast;
the bright discussion.
Have I missed the hands of the postman?
The globe spinning round
as usual,
shows ugly documents, the states
of sadness.
Wars,
Killings,
False promises.
Have you not seen the trees with birds for a long time?
Here the sacred barks at helpless nights,
Preaching
philosophy without fuss.
Do you hear it?
The Other Places and Johannesburg 2022
1
No objection
The ration of sex is free for all
Come in the queue, hungry homo sapiens
You have gone far with lofty complexity
Leaving behind the statue of liberty
And none has met the golden manuscript
When the white fluid is available
And none has the glasses to see the sacred animals
Who are not naked
But I am
And no doubt we all are……
2
A sad cat in the rain.
An ambulance without blood.
A chopped uterus.
The languid moon.
A preacher in an oversexed civilization –
The convolution we want to go along with
In a straight line to the horizon.
But how can we?
Its birth is a failure.
Now there will be no rendezvous.
Run away if you can,
Play virgin.
But where?
I do not know.
The Sacrament
The starvation.
A long queue.
The empty bowels.
The listless state.
A long march.
The sea crossing.
The drowning of the dead.
The Earth revolution.
The sacrament without
Bread
Red wine.
The Box
The science.
The opening.
The pandemic.
The pandemonium.
The sick child.
The pallid face.
The padrone.
The pander.
The disappearance of the green leaf.
Suspends in the Air the Peace Treaty
There is the huge demand for wine
Because of hypertension.
(One may collect water from the bone.
None will stop.)
Goes far the barren land
After sprinkling water on the arid table.
(The farce is eternal)
Finds an innocent rat in a square box
Yet none flees.
At last reaches the terminal station.
The cross.
Who will receive It?
Plays piano
Under the rubble.
The peace treaty.
I put aside when I find
I put aside
The rosy
The sharp part of the heart
And throw away the conscience of the science
When I find a shadowy world
Where a clear bastard
Chewing the quid of the tobacco
Burns the birds
Breaking the vaginas
And rubbing palms
I look to and fro
To find a barber’s shop
To be clean shaved
And from then on
You must not ask me
Why I copulate unnecessarily.
Be alert to be dead
Be alert to be dead.
In the direction of the wind,
The explosive waits for an explosion
And sees the sky, the state gaping
And hell the weapon
The result of the additions.
Everyone and everything runs far away
The static and
The state.
How is the knife?
How is the knife ?
Is it sharp ?
But I do not understand
Why you blame this divine plough.
It is pious.
It paints the face of dawn
With the blood of a meaningless heart.
And so far as knowledge goes,
It commits no crime
Unless you yourself tear the cord of blood.
How is the knife ?
I do not answer.
But I myself knife the gangrene
Of the expired womb.
Discover more from Botsotso
Subscribe to get the latest posts sent to your email.