SHARMILA RAY

Alphabets

 

Alphabets march to enter my heart

but an ancient wind stops them.

They get lost

they die

without forming a word.

However, in the evening they return

with kites

with birds.

Coloured alphabets

sitting arrogantly on my desk

deriding me.

Alphabets mist of my armpits.

Alphabets the cotton stretched

over my breasts.

Alphabets the invisible horizon.

 

I’m swept.

 

In the sense-space of my thought

alphabets grow again on their own

as do the fern

much like the nail on your fingers.

Alphabets mother of words.

Alphabets word-forest.

And if we do loose ourselves

in the forest, it is exactly then

that we find our voice.

 

 

 Summer

 

 

Summer: and the evening is balanced

on jasmine scent.

She spills some paints

making the verandah ochre.

Small pots of coriander add more colour.

She moves

she stops.

 

Over the cityscape shadows appear-marble-veined.

Marooned in chiaroscuro, she reaches out

and picks up a poem.

 

Outside darkness darkens.

Inside her a tune plays-

 

Someone turns eternal.