The Voicefrom Aindrila Polley -A Confessional Poem Poem by Subrata Ray

.

Poetry I think
Is an artesian spring
That fountains records of life's rings
And sunny and cloudy upbringings.

For my case I confess,
My wholeconcern
As a daughter, sister, mother,
And the wife of a Great Other.


In my lifepains and sorrows,
From early morrows,
With my mother -Sikha-
Polley's sudden demise,
Take unprecedented premises.

It was a tornado-tossed tsunami
In the happy realm of our life,
The children lost the mother,
And the father, -his beloved wife.


Here I affirm, Since my birth
In this mundane earth
I had the prerogative
Of parental love and care,
And soul-touched affinity,
With two of my younger brothers.

At my age of 16-prime,
I lost my adolescent rime,
For the Mother was no more,
Closing my vibrant avenues
And all time secured door.

Ocean full- tears, for the father and brothers,
And untold pangs for the dearest one,
Turned standstill my life,
Ah! Ah! dead and gone.
Is loveliest mother.

My father Krishnendu Polley,
A teacher of rare stature,
With un-fathomed fortitude,
Shouldered the tragic matter,
He cooked, and fed us,
Implied tenderly the mother's touch
His vigilant conscience was alert to fill the gap,
He gradually came up in our Mother's Map.

When the turmoil of the cyclone
Was about to over
The darkest Fate,
Came out from the hidden cave,
My father was detected withthroat-Cancer.
Minaroj, Anirban, Aniruddha, amd me,
Tried, cried, prayed, and whined,
Ah! The dropping sun, was never regained.



In the wide -wide seas of troubles,
Waifs we three were,
None to help, none to share,
But Minaroj, my belovedhusband
Was always there.
A never failing soul to mitigate,
The wounds and patches,
Hurled by ominous Fate.
His humble and love-evoked service,
I our direst crisis, we all receive.

I am Hindu, Minaroj Muslim,
But in his being he is human cream,
My father on him had his heart poured blessing,
And my brothers in gratitude,
Look upon him, as life's anchor,
Oasis, and all forbearing.


Pathos-oozed pains reveals my poem,
Misery, misfortunes, tragedy, -what ever be name,
Yet incessant struggle, and undaunted fight,
With a "Friend To Man" offer sorrowful delight.
.
Now I have a son Arish, -as the stay of our life,
I am a daughter, sister, mother and a wife.

You the poets, may be delighted,
Having had your poetic source,
I here stand by life's strand,
As an ever unnoticed primrose.