A Poet in Cuttack

The poem is a meditation on Jayanta Mahapatra’s works.

A sea of concrete, stagnant
like a pregnant tree sits
in the city.
Hiding behind the door (where)
only splashes of monsoon rain
can trespass.
A breezy window to History
that is breathing, his face,
shining as a mirror
reflects the many deaths I live(d).

A monkey watches itself dance.
And his feet lisp like a snake.
A snake which has promised
to never bite, now not knowing
what to do with the long tongue.
Forked in mind, like the tongue,
desperately feigning on the stairs
where perhaps God has placed trenches,
appear to him as mountains.

Each night he dreams of the moon.
I see a caterpillar, climbing.
His wings become redundant,
a butterfly dies in neglect.
The absent touch of a Man he loved
more than his Father
rolls lazily on
my fingers’ dream
waiting to be felt.
There was a time such a touch
made a stone breathe.
Is it not immortality, this moment?

Abinash DC studies in a university and writes when he isn’t reading.

Featured image credit: JL G/Pixabay