Writing herself

A lost manuscript is a woman once loved.
Once written.
Caressed with chappy fingers.
Nestled between sweat soaked pillows.
Of the poor poet who lost it on the tram line.


Now she doesn't know who wrote her.
Doesn't know who loved.
Crumpled in an old tin trunk
She writes herself.
Unpublished.



© Sudeshna Sanyal

The man undressed

Come let me shave your beard
Alumwash the cuts and burns
Let us watch together
The white and black
Children of your chin...
Run down the local drain
Merge with memory of pain.


Come let me undo that saffron turban
That sacred thread snaking around
Your fair fat body arrogant
Remembrance of a quiet boy
Initiated into top class convoy.
And wipe off the sandalwood paste
Your believer's forehead in haste.


Let us fold aside the skull cap that sat
Snug on your namazi head
While the sun burns uniform your face
Blackened brows now mere history
The pride of grinding it five times on the floor
That you wore so well, no more.


Instead let me clothe you naked
And play a game of 'guess who'
Or let us just go as we like
Undressing the raw man that lurked
Behind the fez and the turban.
For we are all going to die one day
It makes sense to live today.

 © Sudeshna Sanyal

One for the road

Sometimes do look back
At a life almost lived
And a death almost died
Along the shores of forgetfulness
Wilful or by chance....
Roads once travelled
Alone or holding hands
Gently going on ash grey
By-lanes.


Remember names scratched
On strangers' doors
Metal and wood.
That screamed to outlive
Time's kind erosion.


You have survived
Scratches and bites
And succumbed
Slow to your own
Rhythm.


Keep going. Keep going.
Until you become the road.

In Milan, Italy

© Sudeshna Sanyal

On being deaf

The red earth that was Kalinga
Panipath and Plassey
Is fiery Godhra today.
Our Gaza Sudan Libya
Passengers of death...
We are.
Stranded.

Burn a church
Shoot a girl
Burn books too.
Raze a mosque
Flatten a temple or two
You are scared
Aren't you?

A snake called Sabarmati
Winds through tunnels of gore
And green intestines of revenge.
The yellow air fills
With charred human smell.
All in a day's planned fell.

Where is your turf?
Where do you fight your wars?
How do you kill your hostage?
Your neighbour, kin
Shell shocked to silence
Or locked in an iron cage
While the camera rolls
And the fire rage.

I will play ghazal on the stereo
Or some Tagore full throttle
Oh drown the newshour now.
The coffee is made, the cries grow.
Or shall we play noisy monopoly,
Who cares for so much human folly
For I must master the art of pretense
And carry on as if it all makes sense.

Photo: Internet

© Sudeshna Sanyal