The Sunday Statesman And The Telegraph... Poem by PARTHA SARATHI PAUL

With the hours of World Yoga Day
wearing on at the ebbed morning choir
The Sunday Statesman and The Telegraph
gathered together on a stool standing near
the poetry computer call me like two cousin seas
to drown in the Alps in their deep bellies.

Like a diver I would dive;
like a miner I would delve into their priceless riches
to satiate my flame like leaping appetite.
Their blue beads embedded in my thirsty forehead
yet sparkle with the glow of glow-worms
and shine like the Sun in my open arms.

On the verge of reembarking on the ancient voyage
some rekindled wishes get wild breakers
and lash on the wet shore of reawakened dreams
in the woken up old Moon backyard beam
yet resumption gets held up in the weird traffic of eclipsed verses
in the tunnel like a furrow under the earth of a half-new journey.

Some new hopes like kangaroos
as usual hop in personal sanctuaries
with some baby hopes in their skin-bags.
Perching on the grey ground with their optimistic tails
in my planet they gaze at the treasure troves
so open-secret in those diverse folded papers.