FOG AND MONUMENTS
History’s grimy womb has spit them out.
Now watch them bathe in the chill and moss
And bask in the light of the mind to stem out
A landscape of truths in mystery embossed.
Like the dewy, vernal breasts of mother Spring
Who shares emerald milk with the untamed
Let these dusty, rusted children of time bring
Light upon the truths unsung and unnamed
The fog drapes over like a ghostly curtain
whose cold contours give way to the grainy past
Curiosity through this window ingrains
Ancestry’s spark and its enlightening blast.
Like the ghosts of victors, the fog assails
Through a chilly tint of losses and deaths
The hungry mind whose parched terrain avails
Of truths through hauntings of ever-graying shades
The dead blue sky has finally been
stitched with lightning and
Infused with grey pregnant clouds!
But what of the taxidermy that the flood-mauled land awaits?
How long will she have to wait till her reconfiguration?
Ah! It is a seasonal treat concocted by
the threads of sorrow,
the needle of bereavement,
the embalming nectar of despair!
She shall be bathed in tears,
bejeweled in broken houses and bloated corpses.
She will yet again make a perfect bride to
the diligent taxidermist, that is TIME!
The caves are ancient and wise.
Aided by the crimson rhythm from deep within,
they whistle out olfactory streams in
a life-affirming musicality.
As for the planetary nostrils that our
jumbled heap of sentience clogs, they are
a moss-jeweled necropolis
for life’s incense-muffled shrine
or for piety’s ubiquitous roadkill.
The mortician hangs from the
mucosal noose and
every sneeze is a slimy elegy.
Rest in peace O utopian vision!
TOMBSTONES MADE OF GUITARS
Many a pensive souls have been grated
to poetic shreds by these stringed vermin.
It is only fair that their final resting places be
marked by these melodious culprits.
O how the vermin used to bestow order
upon gloom’s infesting dissonance!
Their presence fossilized sorrow and extracted
sweet elegies out of the stubborn amber.
No flowers shall wreathe these tombstones,
No tears shall stain their harmonious frames,
For they are regularly bathed in the
sporadic downpours that emotions swirl up.
Let the grateful winds of inspiration strum
out some odes from this stringed scenery of decay.
TO THE MOON
Paint me some thoughts, O silver castaway!
As I trace your sordid cosmic journey,
An eternal crawl across the ebony
sea that kisses the golden shore of day.
Upon the blackened canvas of my gloom
That stands upon sturdy thoughts of despair
In stellar streams route and shed your cold tears,
Their murmur – the siren call of my doom!
A doom whose cold source I fail to discern
eclipsed by my blissful memories of yore
where ubiquitous your cold presence burns
an elusive warmth is its quaint downpour
Like your cosmic plight salvaged by daylight.
My scarred hope yearns for the shore’s faintest sight.
Nilotpal Sarmah is a content writer by profession hailing from the North-Eastern Indian state of Assa, currently residing in the Indian city of Bangalore. A poet by intellect, he has been putting his thoughts in the written form from an early age and is writing in the hope of seeing his work in book form someday. His work has been published in literary journals like Illyas honey and Ashwamegh journal.