Nilotpal Sarmah

 AN  ABANDONED FOUNDATION STONR

Amidst sylvan adoration of an empire of undergrowth,

this stony mound still rears it moss-crowned head

as if in wishful contemplation

of its long dead purpose

 

The stillborn token of some long forgotten idea

nipped at its embryonic bud by ever-fleeting human dedication,

it still incubates in its thick, unscathed, bush-enmeshed womb

redolent in stagnation’s sylvan stench as if in hope that

its abandonment might be attended to by human steps and eyes

akin to yet unlike  the ones that once reared its very birth

 

But it shall be graced by MY eyes and steps – a mere musing observer

oblivious of the stone’s root and curious about its plight;

A plight that reeks of my intellectual reflection

 

Like a cricket that sits atop this stone and chirps its insectile reveries

into the nocturnal ambience,

I sit by the stone’s earthy side and view it as a tombstone;

a tombstone commemorating the death of my

despair-laden confusion

that used to gnaw at my youthful mind

 

A NOCTURNAL PIECE

As the nocturnal landscape’s moon-kissed frame

Perspires in streams of mist and beads of dew

a haven from society’s dystopian game

it wields from the shadows’ primordial hue

Darkness, the fertile, omnipresent muse

to the sylvan spirit’s ever-growing art

mortality, with chaos and gloom imbues

routing their blood  to HOPE’s utopian heart

Like a dust-bathed flower whose beauty’s spasms

Rebels the urban air’s grimy assault

Sylvan fragrance permeates nightly phantasms

Like a beacon amidst the mind’s stormy faults

O dreams! Drown yourself in the fragrant dark

Your writhing breath shall wield awakening’s spark

 

PUTREFACTION

O precious putrefaction! Unveil each

Corner of your gloomy process whence seeps

Out, glorifying cessation’s sublime stench

Mother Nature’s acrid tears of mourning

 

O putrefaction! As death gorges on

Every speck of physicality,

Life, through your ever-flowing juices savors

The vibrant essence of soil’s fertility

 

O putrefaction! May you feed every

Evil mind with stench of its own misdeeds

That has rendered humanity arid

Cracks on whose parched womb shall dissolve into

A fertile rot for flowering progress

 

THE OLD LANTERN

My hands yield to the hindered motion of

the knob, forcing upon my heart a mild

disappointment. Thus retreats my wish to

behold the lantern in its luminous

glory. Embalmed lay the metallic fount’s

lustre in oil-scented, flaky layers of

umber rust and the glass frame in dusty

stains of stagnation, while as emblem of

days of yore, it illumines nostalgia’s

breezy CHAMBER that aerates and cleanses

my mind off time’s cacophonous gloom

In brisk thoughts, I stroll through this lighted chamber

through which, in emotive rumination,

whispers every passing breeze of feelings

 

Summoned by the olden days’ nocturnal

hours, it used to push the darkness

To a plunge upon the homely stillness

thus molding upon the walls shadowy

ripples that transcend the arcane confines

of time and as unrelenting waves, splash

upon my shore of reveries and as

fluid bliss, upon my young, parched intellect

 

Many a flicker its wick has embraced

and raised them to a steady, radiant flame

Like time, that has, many a mortal’s transience traced

who mothers our intellect’s ever-writhing frame.

 

Nilotpal Sarmah : is an engineer by profession hailing from the North-Nilotpal SarmahEastern state of Assam in India, currently residing in the Indian city of Bangalore.A poet by intellect, he has been putting his musings 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.

 Email:  nilotpalsarmah1987@gmail.com