Details |
Pragna Paramita Mondal Poem
It was a funeral of dead flowers.
A silent and solemn ritual it was,
The wordlessness was not meant to strike
A figurative note. Make no mistake!
It was not the day of efflorescence.
The end was inevitable and justifiable,
Leaving no occasion for sighs and complaints.
It was a funeral of dead flowers.
On my little alcove shade lay
Heaps of those once-upon-a-time-fresh flowers,
Jasmine, tuberoses, and the third one without a name.
They had promised me fragrance that would fill up
The fissures of my soul. I thought the fragrance
Belonged to them and was not like some fiscal takeover.
But the white had turned yellow and the yellow was brown,
I couldn’t resist that; I was powerless.
Instead, I joined the requiem but found
No words of condolence to satisfy their sorrow
Or match up to it. It was hopeless, but then
They never belonged to me, and neither to my dead father,
And the dead goddess I had placed them before.
We hadn’t signed up that humble pact,
They weren’t a part of that surreal bond
That the three of us shared; my father, my goddess, and me.
But I’ve heard madmen saying
That the dead share a secret that eludes the living.
I tried to poke the flowers into life,
But they wouldn’t just let it be.
They were motionless and fragile like voices
Muffled in a dark, decomposed alley,
Or dreams ruffled in distant sunless patches,
Or visions that could never really define the quest.
They continued to look back at me
With eyes moonstruck. I turned away my gaze.
There was a tinge of pain like a slight but subtle singe,
And then there was peace.
Copyright © Pragna Paramita Mondal | Year Posted 2010
|
Details |
Pragna Paramita Mondal Poem
Corporeality cannot crop my soul
in metal rust, splinters and iron nails.
A blue electric needle,
and the punctured blood balloon;
Air bubbles escape through froth and foam,
And the eyes consigned
to the ritual of their sanguinary bath,
are sealed in the suffused heat;
they shut out the light;
The flicker and the flame
are destroyed.
The fire and the fumes had long devoured
the oriental tale of mud and mire,
The smoke and the smell of burnt flesh rush in;
the pain.
No place for contrition or consultation,
for grievance and repercussion;
The salvation lies in silence,
which is just a moment away…
Copyright © Pragna Paramita Mondal | Year Posted 2010
|
Details |
Pragna Paramita Mondal Poem
Faces, farces, frames and fragments,
following, fumbling and floating;
no vernal blossoms,
no fountain,
a fiction whirls in a fraction,
a fusion.
A fetish,
frozen and fallen;
a fossil, a forest,
a feeling,
flash and flaunt
the fluroscence.
Then weakened is the flame
and withered is the feather,
in the careless commotion
of fingers.
Copyright © Pragna Paramita Mondal | Year Posted 2010
|
Details |
Pragna Paramita Mondal Poem
Where are the words
that forged the tale into life?
The syllables green and grey,
that grew out of mists
greener, and made
their way into the closets
of our hearts,
the sounds collapse
along the fringes of molten nights;
the blessed sins and signs
lie crusted on the floor,
while the moment falls
and crumbles in the caverns
of our hearts.
Copyright © Pragna Paramita Mondal | Year Posted 2010
|
Details |
Pragna Paramita Mondal Poem
There was a sunny spot in my eye,
a region of riots and ripples,
a cause for resplendence
in mosaic mysteries
and myriad myths;
Tendrils and creepers,
ivies and myrtles
and an emblazoned bliss…
There was a sunny spot in my eye,
beyond the honeydews,
the hills and the hedges,
that nestled the we;
the you and the me…
Copyright © Pragna Paramita Mondal | Year Posted 2010
|