Debasis Mukhopadhyay lives and writes in Montreal, Canada. He has a PhD in literary studies from Université Laval, Quebec and poems published in several magazines in the USA & UK including Yellow Chair Review, Thirteen Myna Birds, Of/With,Silver Birch Press, The Bitchin’ Kitsch, Foliate Oak, Eunoia Review, Snapping Twig, Fragments of Chiaroscuro, Words Surfacing, The Curly Mind, I am not a silent poet, With Painted Words.
Follow him at https://debasismukhopadhyay.wordpress.com/ or @dbasis_m on Twitter.
To recall the rustling cracks
When on the immaculate snow
Her eyes are burning down
To foretell a lie
My sweet name
To attend prayer with a white narcissus in hand
And all day you are sad
Glare around the neck
Sighs slam the door
How old have I become
So quiet so bright so sold out so devoured by languor
I have forgotten the songs & wings
That yesterdays root out unthinking from the needle
Now I will wait wanting to tell you about it
And you may not know I gave you my hands
Keeping my head down, I am waiting for you. No beaky words, no breath of oleander that I can shape into the space of my sun-filled cubicle. Inside Alhambra, I see nothing but a bird with no shadows of its timeless wings made of glass.
I am fluttering downward inside a waiting town. If you come, talk about children, cut roses, waxy ermines, and perhaps, about the hands that have changed waiting all these years. They once were my root. Can you touch me to serve the moment swarming now in my veins? No stage, footlights are the only solace.