Oindri Sengupta

Oindri Sengupta, 24 years of age from India is a postgraduate in English from Calcutta University, Kolkata, West Bengal. She is passionate about films, art and sculpture apart from literature. She is mostly influenced by Bengali, English, French, Spanish and German literature. Her poetry has also appeared in Istanbul Literary Review.


PURPLE



Summer is purple here.

The soil carries the smell of wind on dry leaves.

Man here lives on broken glasses, and

grows trees on ashes.



This is the land of desires.

This is the land, where summer brings

magnificence of light from the burning pyre.

And winter--

moments of truth in lies,

where love smells like cold, stale food, and

selfishness is the ritual of the bones.



My life grows in this summer,

in this burning pyre.

But often my mind escapes into another,

where man has no faces of man, and

where the colour of life is,

the sky.



ELEVEN NIGHTS



Keeping behind the present,

eleven nights spent in daze

in the soft whisperings of the night,

in the maddened crowd of my jumbled hysteria.



The noise outside is much too heavy.

And I sink below

into the caves of time’s restlessness.



Through the pores of the memory

my mind gathered slowly,

the half-painted faces

Of my nights' days.



The houses stand in perfect order.

They know not the faces of the dark,

faces that can burn the sun down.



I have been stuffed

with a dreamt land. With a dumbed vision.

My mind that grows

in its midnight solitude

of my longing rain.

Bursting through the wrapped up smoke,

the past gathers momentum

and it is through the past,

I live the future.



IN OUR HOUSE



In our house,

there lives a sorrow.

When the rain has last forgotten to arrive,

it arrived through our western window

perched in the floor beneath,

and when we walk

it gathers as sweat on our toes.



Our last encounter was when

the rain lashed on our windows,

in some summer of one evening--

when we were having our last coffee of winter

in the backyard of our house

it was wearing a mask--

of a forgetful dream,

a dream where we meet ourselves

sleepwalk and walk through the end of the horizon.



It gave us a twilight last,

before it melted into the rain

and flowed to the western sky.

But we know it is still here,

in this house,

whenever a piece of joy falls as crystal

on the cracks and crevices of the floor.
 


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