A couple of poems by Aritra Mukherjee
To July
In late July,
The half-sketched city
Dissolves in smog
In dimming shades.
*
Some stoppered essences
Now drip on the damp
Foam seat by the window.
*
Its cheap black leather
Rich with your scent.
*
That flowerless wilderness
We had potted many monsoons ago,
Is heavy with arching, gnarled branches.
*
Its splayed fingers hold
The rain-beaded yarn
Of a tiny spider.
*
Our room still smells
Of dust,
Of sweat,
Of aging pages.
*
Of dust,
Of sweat,
Of aging pages.
*
As I read the lines,
The words crawl
Onto my fingers
Like black ants.
*
I wear them like kohl.
*
And when the grey sky rumbles,
I hear Sisyphus’s rock
All the way downhill roll.
———–
Nesting
When you roll the words
In your mouth today,
At last you taste
The petals wither,
The leaves turning brittle.
*
Bits and scraps
Are no longer metaphors.
They take up space.
They gather dust.
They turn old.
*
Some are good
For being torn and thrown.
Some good enough
Junk to be sold off.
*
You wait till the day dries
In the shining scar slashed
Across the broken pane.
*
Then you walk slowly.
As if with a child.
The weight of time
Lies thick on your shoulder.
Distance uncoils
Like a snake.
*
With feathers dipped
In toppled pot of eve,
A pigeon flock flaps
Twice between the homes
Of smudgy insomniac eyes.
*
They circle above
The tangle of cables.
Above clicking,
Grinding trams.
*
And then settle down
In coarse, simple nests.
Behind the lighted
Signs of shops.
*
You buy the late night flowers,
About to be thrown away.
You return to a home where
The reek of rot has spread.
Like dirty water from
An overflowing sink.
*
You need to change the flowers.
And to scrap off the maggots
From a half-eaten story.
