Jayanta Mahapatra Poems
|3.||The Indian Way||12/27/2013|
|4.||The Moon Moments||12/27/2013|
|5.||Main Temple Street||12/27/2013|
|7.||Taste For Tomorrow||12/27/2013|
|11.||The Captive Air Of Chandipur-On-Sea||12/27/2013|
|12.||A Rain Of Rites||12/27/2013|
|13.||A Summer Poem||12/27/2013|
|16.||Dawn At Puri||12/27/2013|
It was hard to believe the flesh was heavy on my back.
The fisherman said: Will you have her, carelessly,
trailing his nets and his nerves, as though his words
sanctified the purpose with which he faced himself.
I saw his white bone thrash his eyes.
I followed him across the sprawling sands,
my mind thumping in the flesh's sling.
Hope lay perhaps in burning the house I lived in.
Silence gripped my sleeves; his body clawed at the froth
his old nets had only dragged up from the seas.
In the flickering dark his lean-to opened like a wound.
The wind ...
At times, as I watch,
it seems as though my country's body
floats down somewhere on the river.
Left alone, I grow into
a half-disembodied bamboo,
its lower part sunk
into itself on the bank.