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Best Poems Written by Tamal Kundu

Below are the all-time best Tamal Kundu poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Tamal Kundu Poem

Microcosm

I walk among stars,
my vibrant soul resonates
their brilliant symphony.

It tells the story 
of us, each reaching out for
the divine in the other.







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Date: 26 / 10 / 2016
Winner of Contest 241 (10 lines max)
Sponsor: Brian Strand

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Because Education Is Important

The last time I had seen this particular cousin of mine, I was still in college and he had a head full of hair. In between, there had been three funerals, two weddings and four births in our Trojan royalty of a family. I had been a university graduate for a year, and the prospect for a job, a decent one at that, had started to grow dimmer by the day. He asked, “Will you tutor my daughter?” “Yes!” I said. And we set out immediately. He, on his bike and I, on my motorcycle following him. We took a right turn at the famous landmark of the statue of demoness Putana, sitting on the grass with her bosom out and legs spread forward. He introduced me to his wife and daughter. Telling them to stand side by side, he told me, “She's only eleven, but look at her! Already equal in length and width to her mother, who is no delicate petal herself. Do you think you can teach her GK?” 

The universe wasn't made with dissent. Plus, the chicken samosas were really delicious. I tried on a grin while the overachieving pre-teen bustled around the room showing me her accolades for painting, singing, studying. As I left he pointed at a tree, “Do you know what tree is that?”

“Bael?” I answered thoughtfully. 

“Apple. That's an apple tree.” 

“Oh! Does it bear fruits?” 

“Not in this climate!” He laughed out loud.





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Date: 30 / 11 / 2016
Contest: James Tate
Sponsor: Space Cadet

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Lust

Last league of March, after spring had reached its peak,
I opened my doors to abeer.
And sunshine.

She grinned, 
Wished, 
Ran,
And shrieked in delight when I caught her.

The saffron on the curves of her hips is mine. 
The azure on the rise of her breasts.
The dark, raunchy purple on her lips.
The vermilion on her forehead is not,
And when dusk fell, it drew her away from me.




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Date: 29 / 10 / 2016
This poem was written in celebration of 'Holi', the festival of colour. The idea was to draw a parallel with the tale of Radha-Krishna, which itself is a story of an affair.

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Bhatiali

Afloat I am, 
The blind horizon spreads to no end.
O river of rivers, 
The queen river,
Flow as you wish, 
Gather silt forever
That on your shores 
Men may harrow, then sow
The seeds of happiness 
And sorrow to grow.

Afloat I am, 
The blind horizon spreads to no end.
Hilsa leaps at the moon,
How wondrously they blend!

Hilsa leaps at the moon,
How wondrously they blend!
O river of rivers, 
The starry river,
Your blinking waves drum
Of Behula's shiver.
I too am lost, 
The tattered merchant fool,
My peacock barge rides
Fate's whirlpool.

Hilsa leaps at the moon,
How wondrously they blend!
When the whistling wind wakes
All courage is pretend.

When the whistling wind wakes
All courage is pretend,
O river of rivers, 
The wise river.
Who would speak for us?
If not you, may be never.
Yet the mountains rise
From the hearths' ash,
You are silent, while
The history is brash.

When the whistling wind wakes
All courage is pretend.
Heaven's horn blares slender silver
For whom to comprehend?

Heaven's horn blares slender silver
For whom to comprehend?
O river of rivers, 
The hungry river,
The consort of Ruin.
An arrow in Falguni's quiver.
The infinite wasteland beckons
Hold onto heart's dream,
One more sun above
Anguish and scream.

Heaven's horn blares slender silver
For whom to comprehend?
Afloat I am, 
The blind horizon spreads to no end.





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Form: Bhatiali
Date: 19 / 11 / 2016
Bhatiali is a form of folk music native to Bangladesh and Bengal. There is no place for Taal (a term used in Indian classical music for the rhythmic pattern) in pure bhatiali. Even rhyme is not that important. Generally, these songs are sung by the cattle herders on the fields or the fisherfolks living off a river. Among the several subjects of folk music in all of Bengal, that includes Deha-tatva (about the body) and Murshid-tatva (about the guru), Bhatiali deals with Prakriti-tatva (about nature). Probably the most renowned poet of this form is Jasimuddin. Some of Rabindranath Tagore's songs can also be categorised as typical bhatiali.

Details | Tamal Kundu Poem

Siachen

At the savage, indigo sky,
draped in snow, claw the mountains high.
By the cirque, a base, sheltered 'neath, 
his gun sings the ballad of death.

A field of kash, in autumn swirl,
the dark braid of that village girl.
Mother's white, unwavering faith,
his gun sings the ballad of death.

Skin burns through the synthetic girth,
frozen blood inseminates earth.
Echo of loss shudders his breath,
his gun sings the ballad of death.

At the savage, indigo sky,
his gun sings the ballad of death.



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Form: Kyrielle Sonnet
Date: 27 / 10 / 2016

Siachen is a glacier located in the eastern Karakoram range of Himalayas mountains just northeast of the LoC between India and Pakistan. It's also the highest battleground on Earth.

Details | Tamal Kundu Poem

Aspiration

And here
we are
again,
my love,
under
one more
bullock
cart night,
devoid 
of care,
ageless
in joy.

Clingy
as sand
are the
actions
of past.
Forgive,
my love,
forget
as well,
devoid
of care,
ageless
in joy.

For long
had I
raged and
hated
the tide
that took
you far
adrift.
But now,
my love,
I know
by heart
it was
leading
you to
me swift.

The man
you called,
“My love,”
my love,
was not
better
a man
than me.
He crushed
your soul
beneath
his thumb,
and noosed
the husk
with glee.

So here
I stand,
a gun
in hand,
tall at
your grave,
my love.
Crows caw
in nest
when owls
destroy,
devoid
of care,
ageless
in joy.





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Date: 09 / 12 / 2016
Contest: Duplex
Sponsor:  Jan Allison

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Towards a New Home

Once there was an end of the war in sight,
they built their John Steinbeck ship,
hoisted the Ayn Rand flag
and sailed to the promised land.

Upon the honeyed shore, there she was,
their old enemy, milky arms wide open in welcome.

Blood and spit dripping from her mouth, she said,
kindness isn't a two-way street.






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Date: 17 / 11 / 2016

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Gymnastics

Goliath intention
Glitters within reach on
Grecian hallowed ground; the
Girl forged by sweat and chalk
Greets the beam with pristine
Gainer flip, ready to
Grace the world with her feat.






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Date: 04 / 12 / 2016
Form: Pleiades G

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A Portrait

The restless night had ended
abruptly. Caught between dreams and
consciousness, the town was arching towards
the sprinkled light of dawn. A perpetual regularity 
reigned over the dusty path that led wayfarers and commuters      
alike in and out of this forgotten cluster of humanity. Somewhere     
out there, a man cursed, and, as if to answer, a woman laughed. A     
repetitive metallic clang—the whines of an iron plate being hammered upon an anvil—  
twisted with a dog's tedious, short barking to form a discordant ladder of dread, telling           how the day might turn out. Punctuating that were the weary shouts of          
     the night guard. An advice. A message. “Awake! Morning is here.” “Awake!
    Morning is here.” A woman walked beside countless others in a long, silent
 procession. Steps measured and heavy, hardly disturbing the dirt, eyes ever
  forward, locked at the sunrise. Life hadn't been kind to her. At forty-five she
     looked sixty. It was just her luck that age had been frivolous enough to come
        early, and sketch a crude lesson at cubism across the pages of her skin. The
                        grey streams on her hair had become a roaring river of high       
                        monsoon. The frozen, dark pools of her eyes had given way
                        to the smokestack dullness. On that day, like the day prior,
                       she had woken up with honks of a garbage truck out on the                
                      street and drunk the cheap, inky                   tea that she
                     had made for herself and her son.
                    Bathing under a valveless tap, she
                  had put on her helmet, and set out.
               The siren from the jute mill had blared
              with an obscene loudness and promise.
             She had to answer. She squared her shoulders
            and trudged on, reeling back into the open maw of her
            her slow, almost languid death, like a cassette on rewind.




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Date: 31 / 12 / 2016

Details | Tamal Kundu Poem

Coffee Date


Morning.
Brewing coffee
Brings you out in my shirt
To serve us both heavy spoons of 
Jam and 
Perch on the counter top. Pancakes
On mute sizzle, I taste 
The last batch on
Your lips.



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Form: Butterfly Cinquain
Lines: 9
Date: 01 /11 / 2016