Footprints of the Clock
Sounds of the wall clock,
ironic annotations
in my fitful sleep,
break in like autumn
through the gap
in the door.
I try to pierce
the thrust of darkness.
As I think of opening
the unvoiced envelops
of the sightless night
somewhere
stray cows pass over
sleeping farmers in rice fields
an eagle waits for daybreak
to hunt down its prey
an old ferry horn
lifts up sunken impulses.
Like a pebble drop
in a meditating pond
the tick-tock returns
with flawless lyrics.
An Afternoon in My Mind
I don’t remember much about waiting
for the bus to my mother’s village
or how we made summer tolerable
while waiting for trains to the cities.
They were like the ignited wick of a cracker
stripping me of my patience.
But like a clogging bunch of thaw
in the flowing canal of my memories
I have this photograph of catching fish
with Mama, Bhai
and Dadu—the stoutest one there
holding the fly rod.
Ecstasy still lies in the frame
but Uncle and Grandpa have passed away.
The fish we caught that day
still flutter in my mind.
The pond must be
keeping our reflections safe—
somewhere in its water
captured by the late afternoon light.
Note: ‘Mama’, ‘Bhai’ and ‘Dadu’ denote maternal uncle, brother and grandfather, respectively, in Bengali.
Beginnings
When I read a book of poems
I try to think of the moment
when the first flow of thoughts
gushed through its pages.
When I hear a music album
I try to think of the moment
when the first note
of the first track in it
kissed the muse of its roots.
When I walk barefoot, pressing
ageless soils and gravels —
I try to think of the moment
when the earth was reared from ashes.
But, never do they recite
the first anecdote of the planet.
My head like a shapeless asteroid
revolves around beginnings —
to peer inside
the static stance of time
and the state of mind
that sets it in motion.
Sonnet Mondal writes from Kolkata and has authored seven books of poetry.
