Golaka Acharya

Built myself
in the bricks of Robert Frost
so much sculpture
so much finery
...

The reverse you are.
At eighty or with wife or grandchildren
youth hides in the umbra
a blurred image
...

Wherever the body is
‘I’ get up hidden
run, fly or float
somewhere other I am.
...

Even when she is
even when she is not;
wind blows softly
leaves look greener
...

In the confessions of Sasmita;
another stroke;
making her love deep and visible;
I see my fraility.
...

Flying and flying
looking and looking
searching and searching
whirling and whirling
...

A strange verandah
old and vanquished eyes
toothless sunken cheeks
looking at the road
...

The same scene
the same rain
the same night.
...

Surrounding is
sharper a knife than diseases
society; more fierce a bullet
than my deserted love;
...

A tree stands there.
What’s its name?
A bald tree stands there
birds come, sit, twitter
...

Light shakes
as a branch tilts
in the wind
life runs
...

Silence after a murder

no kith and keen nearby
...

In the darkness a mango falls
an owl hoots
wind blows and you smile.
...

As I start the semi brave
wishes get wings
the cello, the flute—all brighten;
I think so I am.
...

The odour persists
tireness numbs
eyelids bow, I feel poor.
...

...

The drumstick hangs
the calf pushes its head
into the fence
the bleeding scratch runs.
...

An old bull strolls across
a childless old man
walks slowly
amidst the mango leaves
...

I drew a map of my childhood
another of my adolescence, then
my youth and the next. One day,
sitting alone I tried to compare all.
...

Somewhere the ruffled wind sings a lullaby
who else will
when the hiss of death audible
from below the tree of govt.
...