The Art Poem by Subrata Ray

The Art



In an art gallery,
The tapestry of brush -soaked paper hang,
Judges buzz, with stories sung.

There flashes the red-light -clumsy lore,
Half opened whisper, of hired doors,
Or of an old father with her paralytic-daughter in bed,
or flickering shadows' prey-eyed tigress,
Or snow-wide Himalaya with Vivekananda's tature,
Or Socrates' humor, to poor death's matter.

So many, so many, so many, -the juries conclude,
Art faces the face of ungraspable lute.

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Subrata Ray

Subrata Ray

Formerly East Pahistan
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