BASAB CHAUDHURI

This morning
words whispered in my ear—
give us a little space to thrive,
so we may become a poem.
...

The mailbox is full -
But the one that I have been waiting for,
Does not come.
What do I feel then?
...

Will you come to see me when I die?
I know I will die some day,
but the day is not known,
so I cannot invite you in advance.
...

At this moment
bombs are exploding,
smoke billows outward,
people hide indoors,
...

Something works between us two
that neither of us knows for sure.
The road turns at the same time,
a flower starts to speak in rhyme.
...

So many roads in front of me,
For someone might make a difference.
I am now lost at the crossing—
Could you tell me the shortest route?
...

If you belong to everyone,
You belong to no one.
That's the design.
That's how it's built.
...

Newspapers have pretty much lost their importance now,
instant news are made available, every bit digital.
Continuous crunching of digits make sensation
with continuous munching of an appropriate material.
...

A few steps forward and then coming back,
I pick up pebbles and carefully put them in my pocket -
just to throw them away later, may be a few minutes after
I accumulated them.
...

Often I leave my house and go elsewhere,
for work or for some job poorly defined.
I go -
there is no one to accomany me except the sky,
...

Get me a pen -
I will write with it
a love letter
to all of them.
...

A lovely fruit—
the pomegranate holds
punicalagins,
antioxidants,
...

How softly the bees touch the rose
absorb her fragrance - elsewhere goes,
A silky touch - doesn't look back,
unlike man, not carrying a sack.
...

Some day - near or far
Must be the last phone call,
Then either you or I
Much better if it is I...
...

Numbers --
carefully saved.
They belong to relatives, friends, house-helps, doctors, nurses, care-givers, cooks, cleaners, drivers --
and so many centres supplying workmen and women.
...

The second hand moves fast,
goes up, comes down,
moves up again --
I watch.
...

The stapler is lying idle, there is no pin.
Pins are dreadful; do not pin up the papers --
what is the point in injuring them?
Already there is a lot of blood on the street;
...

He was a great poet --
yes, Kabir, some say Kabir Das.
A few minutes ago I read one of his writings.
He writes: I looked for evils all around,
...

Nothing remains --
saying so, she picked up all the grains that got scattered on the ground: by chance,
yes, the strength has been on the wane for long,
but they were to be picked up and collected.
...

A part of a conversation --
he said, perhaps,
I said, tell me with certainty.
He said, as of now,
...