Sudeep Sen is an Indian poet and editor living in London and New Delhi.
Life and Work
Sen studied at St Columba's School and read literature at Hindu College Delhi University. As an Inlaks Scholar, he received a master's degree from the Graduate School of Journalism at Columbia University in New York. Sen was an international poet-in-residence at the Scottish Poetry Library in Edinburgh, and a visiting scholar at Harvard University.
His books include Postcards from Bangladesh, Prayer Flag, Distracted Geographies, and Rain. He has edited anthologies including: The HarperCollins Book of English Poetry by Indians (2011), World Literature Today Writing from ... more »
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Sudeep Sen Poems
It is mid-afternoon now, the sun streaks slant wards through the attic's double-glazing melting the scorched ink
One Moonlit December Night
One moonlit December night you came knocking at my door, I took my time to open.
Birds fly across the pale blue sky cross-stitching a matrix in Pali— a tongue now beautifully classical like temple-toned Bharatanatyam.
a languorous kiss — the faintest smell of ocean — salt-lipped breeze, pleading —
Under the soft translucent linen, the ridges around your nipples harden at the thought of my tongue. You — lying inverted like the letter ‘c’ —
As winter secrets melt with the purple sun,
My syntax, tightly-wrought— I struggle to let go, to let go of its formality,
I meticulously stitch time through the embroidered sky, through its unpredictable lumps and hollows. I am going home once again from another home, escaping the weave of reality into another
Jacket on a Chair
You carelessly tossed the jacket on a chair. The assembly of cloth collapsed in slow motion
Ten years on, I came searching for war signs of the past expecting remnants—magazine debris, unexploded shells,
In Japanese, Yuki is snow— unmelted and poised. She sits askance in front of a wine-tinged door
Zoji La Pass
at 12,000 feet slopes steeply. Hard snow cut into two by winding tarmac—
the kindness of libation, lyric, and blood her endless notes left for me — little secrets, graces — trills recorded on blue and purple parchment
Spaces in the electric air divide themselves in circular rhythms, as the slender grace of your arms and bell-tied ankles describe a geometric topography, real, cosmic,
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
It is mid-afternoon now,
the sun streaks slant wards
through the attic's double-glazing
melting the scorched ink
in my crowded note-book
that lies blanched
on the sparse weathered table.
Hardened sepia-stained lines
that once approximated to
a flock of metaphors,
now rearrange themselves
into a congregation of phrases,
a lineation of new line-breaks:
stops that defy
even the physics of refraction,
thoughts that now re-surface
and resurrect just as
passion and reverence did ...