MOHIT MITRA Poet Sonnet

Prithee, Teach!

—How & The Art—



Thou bidd’st me not to love thee—teach me how;
for when I read thy words, I hear thy speech
bend into sighs no alphabet can vow,
and touch the very wound words cannot reach.

Thy phrases come sea-fraught, and, entering,
distil their brine within my jottish cup;
each pause grows lachrymal; each stress doth sting—
till mine own eyes betray what I’d shut up.

I’ve stood through iron years, and did not break;
yet sable, aureate—my hounds—draw near,
climb up, and ask, “Wherefore, Pa, dost ache?”
I smile; they search my face, then simply hear.

So tell me, how shall I learn thy art,
when silence hears thee loudest in my heart?

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