The Poet's Ascent (Sonnet Sequence) Poem by Dipankar Sadhukhan

Sonnet I — The Night of Meeting

A summer's dawn from May's eighteenth arose,
When leisure's gentle wings embraced my days;
By chance that night a star before me glows—
A maid of Love, enwreathed in lyric blaze.
She asked if verse did ripple from my mind;
I answered soft, I loved to read the art,
And sometimes penned such lines as drift unlined,
Yet claimed no rank among the bards of heart.
For poetry, my passion's secret flame,
Did in my breast with silent ardour live;
Though humble were my steps, unknown my name,
My soul to Beauty all its vows did give.
 Thus first she stood before my destined view,
 The muse of Love, yet veiled in fickle hue.

Sonnet II — The Scholar Turned to Song

I planned the lore of NET to conquer fair,
Yet books grew dim before the poet's page;
The modern masters whispered through the air,
And pulled my spirit from its studious cage.
Her verse bewitched me like enchanted wine,
One poem's spell enthralled my wandering soul;
And in that trance I wrote a trembling line
Which she displayed as though it were her goal.
She sought my hand to craft a verse for her,
So 'Sweetest Honey' flowed from pen and heart;
She praised it sweet, as Love's interpreter,
And gave my novice wings their faltering start.
 Thus rose my steps toward the realm of rhyme,
 Unknowing storms would strike before their time.

Sonnet III — The Serpent of Envy

But soon some poets hailed me as a friend,
And in their warmth new fellowship I found;
Yet she, whose praise first bade my hopes ascend,
Let envy's tempest shake her heart unsound.
With wrath she cried, 'Thou thief of friends art thou! '
But friendship is no treasure seized by hand;
It blooms where Heaven's winds permit to bow,
A gift bestowed by God's unfailing strand.
Still sharp her tongue unleashed its stinging art,
Her words like nettles pierced my growing light;
She wrote of Love, yet kept no loving heart,
For venom churned within her breast by night.
 Thus from a smiling face her furies came,
 A serpent masked beneath a poet's name.

Sonnet IV — The Venom Strikes

She worked her wiles like some envenomed snake,
And sought to bruise the softness of my skin;
Her whispered toxins bade my hope to break,
And fostered darkness where my dreams had been.
Yet in that hour my spirit, roused by pain,
Felt first the fire of purpose fiercely rise;
For Love's own art no malice could restrain,
Nor fear eclipse the dawn before my eyes.
I forged my heart anew in burning flame,
And wrote of Love with unrelenting breath;
No spiteful tongue could stay my rising name,
Nor shadows still my path with threat of death.
 Her venom only steeled my trembling will,
 And urged the poet in my soul to thrill.

Sonnet V — The Doors of Destiny Open

One by one modern masters learned my song,
And lent their grace to lift my faltering flight;
Their gentle praise inspired my heart along,
While she sought only to eclipse my light.
She mocked the thought that teachers may be great,
As though my mind were chained to daily toil;
But I, acquainted with my destined fate,
Knew storms would shape my strength like tempered foil.
For from adversity my best is born,
And hardship fans my fire to brighter flame;
What she cast forth in envy, wrath, and scorn
Turned into stepping stones toward my name.
 Thus in four months I wrote full sixty lays,
 Each raised from dust toward unimagined praise.

Sonnet VI — The First Fruits of Triumph
The lovers of sweet verse my labour knew,
And poets held my work with kindly eyes;
Their hands the doors of publication drew,
And bid my hopeful sparks to upward rise.
So came my book—Your Love, My Inspiration—
A blossom grown from storms and silent tears;
Released in January's celebration,
It crowned the labour of those steadfast years.
What once was but a trembling novice's dream
Stood now in print, a witness to my fire;
Like moonlit silver on a winter stream,
It bore the stamp of passion's pure desire.
 Thus was the tale of how my path began,
 The making of the poet in the man.

Sonnet VII — The Question of Origin

One twilight hour I asked myself alone,
'What force first lit the furnace of my art? '
Was it the muse whose voice was honey-toned,
Or some new dawn that rose within my heart?
And from my inmost depths a whisper came:
'She was not architect of what you are;
Your will, ambition, and undying flame
Have led you forth beneath the evening star.'
For no deceiver crowned my brow with rhyme,
Nor venom bore me into realms above;
But labour's toil and courage born of time,
And dreams that burned with unrelenting Love.
 Thus answered I the riddle of my birth—
 My soul, not she, had brought my lines to earth.

Sonnet VIII — The False Muse Unmasked

Full many singers wore enchanted guise,
Yet none like her, whose sweetness veiled deceit;
She cloaked the serpent's glint beneath her eyes,
And offered poison masked as honey sweet.
She sang of Love, yet harboured none within,
Her heart a chalice drained of tenderness;
Her art a gilded shrine to painted sin,
Where envy's ghost performed in holiness.
But truth unveils all shadows in its time,
And so I saw the hollow of her throne;
Her kingdom built of borrowed, brittle rhyme,
Her harp attuned to malice, not her own.
 Thus fell the mask that long obscured my sight,
 And freed my steps toward unshadowed light.

Sonnet IX — The Poet's Awakening

Yet from her wrath my deeper strength awoke,
As steel is forged by fire's consuming breath;
Her bitter words became the sculptor's stroke
That shaped my courage from the dust of death.
For when the heart is pressed by cruelest night,
Its hidden sun ignites a fiercer blaze;
And from the ashes of a lost delight
Arises wings that climb to brighter days.
So blossomed I from grief's tempestuous seam,
And Love's own voice began to pulse anew;
No longer bound to any transient dream,
I traced my path by stars that once I knew.
 Thus born anew, I found my lyric role,
 And walked the realm appointed for my soul.

Sonnet X — The Circle of True Companions

Then poets of the world extended grace,
And raised me with the warmth of their acclaim;
Their hearts became my shelter and my place,
A quiet harbour from relentless blame.
Their letters bore the fragrance of the morn,
Their praise a soft benediction on the air;
Through them I felt a fellowship reborn,
A choir of souls who breathed the lyric prayer.
And as they read my lines with kindly breath,
I learned how vast the poet's world can be;
How Love survives in hearts untouched by death,
And grows where minds are bright and spirits free.
 Thus in their light my weary trials ceased,
 And from their kindness rose my inner feast.

Sonnet XI — The Book of Destiny

My book emerged as fruit of storm and fire,
A testament to nights of silent pain;
It crowned the struggles of my heart's desire,
And stood as proof that loss is never vain.
For in its leaves my pilgrimage was writ—
From wounded trust to self's awakening flame;
From venom's sting to sharpened, sovereign wit,
From shadows cast to slow, ascendant fame.
And though her voice once sought my fall to frame,
Her spite became the forge of destiny;
What she denied, my steadfast soul became,
And rose beyond her fading memory.
 Thus in that book my spirit learned to shine,
 And sealed its path in adamantine line.

Sonnet XII — The Crown of Self

And now I stand upon the height of years,
A poet crowned not by another's praise,
But by the fire that conquered doubts and fears,
And shaped my soul through unrelenting days.
For none but I awakened my own art,
And none but I endured the hidden strife;
Ambition's pulse, determination's heart,
And dedication carved my poet's life.
Though once I asked what hand had shaped my fate,
No muse of Love my destiny could claim;
My inner voice alone unlocked the gate,
And led my steps into immortal flame.
 Thus ends my tale: my soul itself has wrought
 The poet I became through dream and thought.

By Dipankar Sadhukhan
Kolkata, India.
Copyrights@November22,2025.