Debasis Mukhopadhyay - Poems

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.

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I stayed with you when it was dark 
I left you dead at dawn with no sea around inside an empty rental room where paper flowers crouching before the matter of sky through the shattered window pane with no darkness to become one flesh with you.

I can now look afar off your dead hands which are not beyond the scope of a poem.




                         Mirador

Bouncing over my blue you rolled over like a damn boat as I kept watching you standing in the silence that claimed the night of your skin, the salt of your whispers and sighs, the roses of hope that'd colored my gaze on your smoky skull. Brittle and alone across the page, I look for you in the recesses of my dreams.

That dance was meant to be our last waltz, Soledad, where did you go? 



                                  Inkblot 

i had known it from the start
she said 
in sepia
and turned away 
i tried to touch her 
the membrane felt
and 
felt 
a song
the overcast
bounced and rolled over
like a damn boat
a hundred years


now to stretch away from each other 
we imagined scars 
where had been living
the extreme rust


thereafter came the leftover poems 
and i got up only to walk up to
monnet's poppy field
against the wall
and i bent down to
the swaying flowers
thinking of her words
gone in blood 
the flowers bled to let loose
in the meaning
and
to lose
the meaning
i tucked my dreams and dreads in her chest again
so quick she too opened her ribs 
that kept ticking
all our corpses are swimming back up 
and the clock
filled the room
a hundred years
the inkblot now made some sense