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
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.
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,
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.