Jayanta Mahapatra Poems
|3.||Main Temple Street||12/27/2013|
|5.||The Indian Way||12/27/2013|
|6.||Taste For Tomorrow||12/27/2013|
|8.||The Captive Air Of Chandipur-On-Sea||12/27/2013|
|9.||The Moon Moments||12/27/2013|
|11.||A Summer Poem||12/27/2013|
|13.||A Rain Of Rites||12/27/2013|
|15.||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 ...
The little girl's hand is made of darkness
How will I hold it?
The streetlamps hang like decapitated heads
Blood opens that terrible door between us
The wide mouth of the country is clamped in pain
while its body writhes on its bed of nails