April

Breathing together are the wind with the length of the day;

The warmth of the past season is transpiring as the warm

Of the evening, becoming lengthy by each passing eve.

The skin fair has started to be tanned where the mid-day sun

Touches; the naked unguarded portion of the body.

Who is there to deny this ascending? No one.


The trees are glowing with the green leaves, new and young,

Gift of the spring to the nature and to those looking at them.

The mangoes and jack fruits are waiting to be there on the branches;

To be get plucked, and to get tasted. Sweet and sour; a potpourri

Of taste they serve to the tongue that has grown pale and tasteless.

The noon will start romancing the silence of the city; and the morning

And the evening will smell calm and sweet; as soap will be rubbed

During the bath–the aspect that was a matter of chaos in few last months.

Who can deny this, the matter of chaos and the disturbance? No one.


The morning will be clear and warm as the sun will rise

Beyond the tall glass trees; and the breeze will be calm, before

The bits of the beats of the day progress welcoming the blistering warmth.

The evening will be same; warm and breathless, waiting for the monsoon.

The moon in the late evening can only make it calm and composed.

Sometimes the young evening will guise itself into the night.

The storm will brew and brontide will be composed at the horizon of city;

The spells are of varied types ranging from torrential to mild to drizzling

Sending life in a mess, the mess that is chaotically beautiful

And perfumed, amalgamation of petrichor and wet hot asphalt streets.

Where is the one who can reject the call of the long that followed?


Written for Day 25 of National/Global Poem Writing Month 2019.

Prompt:

And now for today’s prompt (optional, as always). Taking a cue from our video resource for the day, and from Keat’s poem, To Autumn, I’d like to challenge you to write a poem that:

  • Is specific to a season
  • Uses imagery that relates to all five senses (sight, sound, taste, touch, and smell)
  • Includes a rhetorical question, (like Keats’ “where are the songs of spring?”)
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Published by Sangbad

A poet, an author, a reviewer--in one word I'm a literaturist (means one who is trying almost everything that Literature is made of). My books are available at Amazon. I'm a Bengali, born and raised in Kolkata, West Bengal.

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