Jayanta Mahapatra Poems
|3.||Main Temple Street||12/27/2013|
|5.||The Indian Way||12/27/2013|
|6.||The Moon Moments||12/27/2013|
|7.||Taste For Tomorrow||12/27/2013|
|9.||A Rain Of Rites||12/27/2013|
|12.||The Captive Air Of Chandipur-On-Sea||12/27/2013|
|13.||A Summer Poem||12/27/2013|
|14.||Dawn At Puri||12/27/2013|
It was hard to believe the flesh was heavy on my back.
The fisherman said: Will you have her, carelessly,
trailing his nets and his nerves, as though his words
sanctified the purpose with which he faced himself.
I saw his white bone thrash his eyes.
I followed him across the sprawling sands,
my mind thumping in the flesh's sling.
Hope lay perhaps in burning the house I lived in.
Silence gripped my sleeves; his body clawed at the froth
his old nets had only dragged up from the seas.
In the flickering dark his lean-to opened like a wound.
The wind ...
The substance that stirs in my palm
could well be a dead man; no need
to show surprise at the dizzy acts of wind.
My old father sitting uncertainly three feet away
is the slow cloud against the sky:
so my heart's beating makes of me a survivor
over here where the sun quietly sets.
The ways of freeing myself: