After The Harvest Poem by Rites Ghosh

After The Harvest



One harvest 's done,

waiting in hand

another green repetition:

here in this fallow time

what think thou

great green pale meadow-

your voice must be unknown now,

eyes stolen through

somewhere far-

between the furrows

grass's silky frill proudly stir



you have a mind

but not to hear

this piping lark

that's come unasked

in this indifferent wind

as a beauty-giver-


they have left

with their mighty hands filled,

left the unmindful silence distilled

in thy reaping breast;

one business in field dies

from this good patience

other dreams are ready to rise-

the hours in between

like a stripped body, thin

movelessly lies-

next time - is it more price

for which you're sworn -

giving round their hands

plenty of golden corn?

or, this thoughtful wing

may ever bring

thou close to some rueful lines

of a sadder poet


perhaps it's too late

you know through him,

this golden accumulation

not of thine,

not a shred of it,

not even these little flowers

from grasses at thy feet:


late upon these hours,

I too sitting upon my bowers

feel the mill of a poet' s mind-

feel his consuming time and find

him dying down in weary spot;

the odour smelt out of his thought

they left him ever in a naught...

Monday, June 30, 2014
Topic(s) of this poem: art
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