A Lunatic Hit by a Car

In the pool of blood lies the

Finger—decapitated and snatched

From its owner’s hand.

Whose finger was that?

Every one knew nothing of the man;

Every one knows something of the man.

Lonely and singular finger was thumb;

The nail of whose has been uprooted

And now there a fly flies

Shading its hazed shadow on the

Stopped rhythm of the blood.

Where the finger is pointing?

To every one or to the nothing.

Every one knew nothing of the man.

They beat him up;

They thrashed him down.

Some asked him to

Chant the name of the almighty—

The ultimate onus of the truth.

Some threatened

In the name of the deity.

Nothing made him chant the name.

Everything made him gurgled and vomits

Saliva along with foods he had

And blood he has in his veins.

Every one knows something of the man.

He used of

Running the errands of a nearby cheap rice hotel,

Leaping—one leg donated to polio.

He, in the morning, had clashed with

A young lady living, nearby, in one of the new complexes.

She screamed after he crossed.

Her golden chain from the neck was missing.

They hold him and throw him to the hot asphalt road,

And had questioned him on the where about of the chain.

He sat on his knees, with effort, and prayed whispering

And whined where one tucked his hair at the crown

He knows nothing; he’s not a thief or a snatcher.

But the circle around him was an assembly of juries

Deciding on the wrongdoings in a wink;

Guilty he was; now lying to prove his guilted innocence.

A search was done;

Unwashed clothes snatched and torn.

He guard his genital in shame when

One kicked there on the hand

Starting the process of the justice.

In the pool of blood lies the—

Emptiness…

Finger…where does it go?

A feast for a crow sitting on the

Asbestos roof of the rice hotel.

Everyone knew what has happened—

Some boasting on participating in the justice procedural;

Some pondering where he’d sent off the chain.

Everyone knows what has happened.

The limping man taken up in a police van

Wrapped in a blanket

Unconscious and mumbling for water.

There was no gun or knife

Only feet and legs, punches and thrashing;

Bricks and sticks, curses and spits.

There was only urges for taking the name

Of the almighty

And the lost chain was trivial.

He felt no pain among the pains.

Wise and honest keepers of jurisprudence

May though knew the thumb was

Severed—

Not every, but few ones.

Now,

Rain is washing away the blood,

Drenching the dirt and tattered clothes.

Now,

A constable is writing report—

A lunatic hit by a car.

Now,

The young lady found her golden chair

Inside her bag, kept when

She couldn’t recollect.

Now,

The man lies, naked, in

Corner of a dungeon, dark walls and damp floor,

Chanting the name of god

As he had,

When all asked him.

A group of rats looking at him and cockroaches walking over

The puss and blood

oozing out.

—Sangbad, 24-09-2019

Sparrows

On the slab of my southern windows they sat and chirped

Telling it’s time, and we are here.

They dance, they prance on the patterned grills–

grabbing the attention, you can say.

They chirp, they dance letting the world know–

we are still here.

Once, not long ago, they have disappeared just to return.

They chirp, they flapped their majestic little wings

As I offer them, spreading, some puff rices, on the slab;

They have them silently; sometimes and often flapping their wings.

They dance, they chirped, they pranced before flying away.

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Written for Day 23 of National/Global Poem Writing Month 2019.

Prompt:

And now for our daily prompt (optional, as always)! Taking a cue from Elizabeth Bishop’s “The Sandpiper”, I’d like to challenge you today to write a poem about an animal. If you’d like to take a look at some other poems for inspiration, you might like James Dickey’s “The Dusk of Horses,” or Tennyson’s “The Eagle.”

Into the Kalbaisakhi

Dida used to say the sky is performing deyala.

The clouds formed up in the corner of the sky, and the wind breath like last breathe,

Naturally unnaturally the darkness descend bringing the night in early,

when there should be sun on the crescendo at the city summer sky (or)

when the sun is getting ready to bid the day coloring the sky with hazed blue.

The calling of the sky is the call for the housewives and maids to be on their heels.

If it’s noon,

dragging and hauling the washed clothes from the cloth lines.

If it’s evening,

the doors and windows are shut with loud bangs and thuds;

screaming and shouting to other members in the home

to participate in this bangs and thuds.

On the streets and roads; on the glasses of the corporate universe

it is storm is coming…there will be a rain.

When all are set in most of them though, not all

Kalbaisakhi ascend; sometimes harsh, sometimes soft

Everyone is jogger; running the marathon to home or some shelters–

or somewhere they are supposed to be.

The cab drivers smiled. It going to be their early peak time for the extra fare;

the hawkers pull and push tarpaulin or plastic covers over their goods.

The sky raises its voice, the flash starts lighting with loud claps of thunder.

These days though it doesn’t occur, but, in my childhood

I remember elder women, aunts and grandmothers and mothers used to–

blow conches saying it would calm the god of the sky, Varun Dev.

The rain falls sometimes jhir jhir, sometimes jhom jhom.

The sound is melancholy whatever the rain took form, as–

most of us miss our childhoods, when there were raincoats and kagojer nouka,–

and the mango showers. Followed by the scoldings by Ma.

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Note:

The words in italic are terms that I free-translate to English from Bengali. They are very much colloquial to Kolkata, my city.

Dida is Bengali for grandmother.

Deyala is whimsical movements of a kid while sleeping, the smiling and laughing or weeping. Sometimes it is referred to the movement of the mouth on their face, opening up to catch breath or rubbing hands over eyes.

In the context of the poem, before a rain spell the sky sometimes sunny sometimes cloudy, and sometimes both,

Kalbaisakhi is the pre-monsoon storm followed by spell of rain happening mostly in April in Bengal. It is also known as Nor’westers.

Jhir jhir and jhom, jhom are respectively drizzling and torrential rain.

Kagojer nouka is paper boat.

Image procured from Google Search Engine.

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Written for Day 10 of National/Global Poem Writing Month 2019.

Prompt:

Our prompt for the day (optional, as always), is also rooted in dialect and regional phrasing. In her poem “Sunshower,” Natalie Shapero finds inspiration in a rather colorful phrase used in Mississippi and Alabama to describe the situation in which it rains while the sun is shining.

Today, I’d like to challenge you to write a poem that starts from a regional phrase, particularly one to describe a weather phenomenon.

A Summer Morning Pentatonic

Things Needed for Repairing the Nest

Last Saturday, the two had sat on the electric wire. Distance between them was grabbing attention in the night halogened darkness. Their nest had been damaged by the twin evening storms. This morning the male crow working on the nest again while female crow awaits on another branch dancing in the summer morning wind. The male is bringing in branches from the trees on the side of the road. He’s also bringing in wide thick nylon rope from the prominent electric shop on the other side of road to fixed it by the side of the nest. The woman caw seeing him struggling with the rope to get it fixed in, to get it adjusted to repair the damaged broken nest. She might be laughing or she might be instructing him. The man looked at her, and caw at last, the rope in his beak fallen down on the courtyard of the neighbor house. The woman caw dancing on the branch as the man looked down. Is she laughing; yes she is.

Things to Make the Rags Become Rich

When it times to donation the rags became riches by filling the bag, torn and thrown away. Volunteer knows half a day or a day or two job of them to make the rags again rag. Poor soul they are or the ones who stuffed rags into bag to be rich.

Things to Cool Your Hot Tea in the Morning

Few days left to the selection process of public’s representatives. The tea glasses or the clay cups are brewing smoke. People are on heel dissecting the candidates. Newspaper publishing the mark-sheets of each candidates. Their age, their win and lost in their electoral years–past, their assets and the constitution they are standing in. Scandals and happenings are also coming out as skeleton would out of a wardrobe making the death walk. From court to courtyard, from cafes to pavements, every one gossiping on the election. Summer is really going to be a hot one this year with northwesters storms hurling in often.

Things that Breeze of Drawn Let to Fly

The morning is windy one. The cool breeze woke me up early. To-day is my holiday, but, the breeze woke me up. A dream I was having. I cannot recollect it now. I ponder over my pillow to find something to ruminate. And there she is beside me. A morning dream I know. The marriage is to happen next year. Is this a dream or a vision or some tricks my thoughts were playing in the morning?

Things Needed for the Meal for the Pigeons and Crows

I scattered the crumbs of the breads. The pigeons flies in. The crows flies in. The second group caws as if lodging objection to treat the first one first. I smiled at them before throwing some big pieces to them. They stop cawing, and started fighting to get the best pieces. The sun was slowly shining high and piercing. MET has predicted thunderstorm in the late noon or early eve. Till then the pigeons, the crows and me have to sweat in this hot.

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Written for Day 9 of National/Global Poem Writing Month 2019.

Prompt:

Our (optional) prompt for the day asks you to engage in another kind of cross-cultural exercise, as it is inspired by the work of Sei Shonagon, a Japanese writer who lived more than 1000 years ago. She wrote a journal that came to be known as The Pillow Book. In it she recorded daily observations, court gossip, poems, aphorisms, and musings, including lists with titles like “Things That Have Lost Their Power,” “Adorable Things,” and “Things That Make Your Heart Beat Faster.” Today, I’d like to challenge you to write your own Sei Shonagon-style list of “things.” What things? Well, that’s for you to decide!

Few Minutes Away From Ten O’Clock

i

Looking from a window above, it’s like a story of love; can you hear me. [1]

All are busy, all are in their own worlds, in their thoughts.

Oh think twice, ’cause it’s another day for you and me in paradise. [2]

ii

The sun is shining high on the summer sky; rain has been forecasted in eve.

But, we’ve no time for that; we only know the sprint to the made here-I-should-be.

Looking from a window, it’s like a story of love; can you hear me.

iii

The old man is sweating: he’s out of pension; a year he has retired from the job.

No one has time to look at him; asked him are you okay; it’ll be detour from the walk–

Oh think twice, ’cause it’s another day for you and me in paradise

iv

The husband has boarded the bus; his son and wife bidding him; she’ll go to work–

Living the little one at the creche. A tinge of happiness I brushed in to their life.

Looking from a window above, it’s like a story of love; can you hear me.

v

The bank has open as the old man looked at his clock; he wiped his forehead.

His grandchild going to be born tomorrow or next day of ‘morrow–I imagined.

Oh think twice, ’cause it’s another day for you and me in paradise.

vi

The cacophony and the bustling of the morning will slow down.

No one, me too, will remember the old man and the couple.

Looking from a window above, it’s like a story of love; can you hear me.

Oh think twice, ’cause it’s another day for you and me in paradise.

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[1] Only You–Enrique Iglesias

[2] Another Day in Paradise–Phil Collins

—xxx—

Written for Day 5 of National/Global Poem Writing Month 2019.

Prompt:

For our daily prompt (optional as always). Today’s prompt comes from another poem by Kyle Dargan, called “Diaspora: A Narcolepsy Hymn.” This poem, like “Call and Response,” is inspired by the work of others – in this case, the poet Morgan Parker, and lyrics from songs by Beyoncé and The Notorious B.I.G. The poem also partakes of one of the most difficult poetic forms, the villanelle.

And to make it an even more virtuoso performance, Dargan’s alternating lines, besides being taken from songs, express “opposing” ideas, with one being about sleeping, and the other waking.

Following Dargan’s lead, today we’d like to challenge you to write a poem that incorporates at least one of the following: (1) the villanelle form, (2) lines taken from an outside text, and/or (3) phrases that oppose each other in some way. If you can use two elements, great – and if you can do all three, wow!