Poems

A Presence
(Published but not in a book)

An ever-awake presence in every heart
including that of the demon and the desert
in humans and animals in a state rudiment
in the bosom of the hazy and dark inconscient
in the dark cave, a spark of the supreme presence
carries in every matter a spiritual sense;
It is the cause why severe passion and violence
of the vital world, wave of advance of the forces adverse
cannot bring a catastrophe total
a total annihilation with a blow fatal
creating a control somewhere in the deep
causing the face of the harmony to peep
and save the earth from threats diurnal
leading Nature to a state sempiternal.




Sri Aurobindo
(From Aju Mukhopadhyay’s Poems on Sri Aurobindo and the Mother)

‘God shall grow up while the wise men talk and sleep
For man shall not know the coming till its hour
And belief shall be not till the work is done’-
said Sri Aurobindo in his epic poem Savitri.

The voice of truth in the seer poet Sri Aurobindo was heard
As he was a lotus born in mud, away from the mundane scene,
The cascading Supramental light like the golden swan
Touching the sky kept its foot on earth fixed.

Like a tree he was peaceful, unhurried and calm with perseverance
Among the thousand resounding words his existence was silence
In his body sat the God, his face revealed the eternity
Out of intense love for men he sat away from humanity.

Small fries in shallow water and surface-gazers
were lost in the depth of his fathomless water.




February Twenty-first
(From Aju Mukhopadhyay’s Poems on Sri Aurobindo and the Mother)


Under the hush of the early devout hours
An immaculate calm and a mystic silence prevailed:
Silent soft pearl-drop dews
Of grace and love of myriad hues
Were constantly falling from the divine bowers.
Then came the moment when all got drenched
By the heart-blossoming and joy-flowering showers
Of the Divine’s transcendent powers.
The throat and the lips and the tongue
Remained unstirred; not even a whisper was heard.
Yet an unnamed name, a wordless cry
Kept repeating and throbbing in the occult depths of the heart-
Mother Mother
It was to commemorate a divine birth;
A fathomless emotion was blissfully conscious
That it was February twenty-first.




The Death of a Rose
(From In Celebration of Nature)


When the rose was there
Fragrance wafted in the air
Bees were busy at sucking
Traders were going for plucking
Struck by wanton beauty
Rose-lovers stopped the robbery.
But it faded away soon
As if from morning to noon.
As it kissed the ground
Petal by petal, red-pinkish
Without a murmur or sound
Sweet-sodden, lovelorn, nostalgic
The wind became rusty and heavy
They thronged around the body
To silently mourn the crumbling
To wail from suppressed suffering.

Some humans spread more fragrance
After they cross the mortal space.


The Death of a Bird and Hunter
(From In Celebration of Nature)



The weight of the bullet
In the heart of the bird
Became a burden to the sky;
Gravitation pulled
The body of the bird
Sailing in the sky
Joyously,
Flapping in cadence
A beauty it was
Moment before.
From among its folk
A bullet by chance
Singled it out
Still then a family member;
Suddenly pierced
Gasped for breath
Losing all mortal harmony
It fell spirally
Effortlessly
Haplessly pushed by the sky
To the very point of
No return
And licked the dust at last.
Running very fast
Over-jealous
He stumbled over the bird;
It was a bloody
Painted Stork
Bundle of flesh and blood.
Glancing upward
Murderous hunter
Found the sky very clean,
Pure and vast
But greed and lust
Dwelled in his blood
Pierced his
Treacherous heart.


Colours of the Sky
(From In Celebration of Nature)


Sun was yet to appear at dawn
But its light orange scintillating ray
Circled a portion of the sky: first foray
Flying within it were the crows
A picture framed in the shadowy lawn.
After the daybreak grey changed to blue pure
Blue became bright, clouds became white
Big bright cotton white clouds were shaped
White horses galloped in a race in the azure.
At twilight sky was painted fresh
Deep crimson fading orange pale yellow glowing red
Different decors when Sun was drooping its head
So much colour so much chase, many a different phase
Created by superhuman artistic consciousness.




Insect’s Nest
(Published but not in a book)


When it came and built the frame
on the wall,
briskly I bruised it
by a finger.
Twice it came again
I ignored it then.
Now on the wall it has a shelter
at the back of my computer;
a frail one inch hollow tube
upside open downside closed
clipped to the wall.
It’s a tiny wasp
may be with family it lives;
they come and go.

Ain’t all the great constructions
like insect’s nest
brittle and fragile
sure to go
today or tomorrow
measured by time?
Why bother about any mark made of lime?




The Paper Boat
(From The Paper Boat)

The paper boat
I set adrift
In my childhood
On the flooded road
Of a metropolis
Has just arrived
This rainy evening
At my doorstep
Under full sail
Inviting me
To set out on it
For a nouvelle
Adventure.




What an Age we are Passing through!
(From The Paper Boat)


What an age we are passing through!
What a hodgepodge what limosis what craze!
Best of all the cracies, they say, is democracy
after all, a rule by the people, for the people
but alas, it’s only once that they get the chance,
easily duped by the demagogic, prolixious speech
and the crocodile tears . . .
everything they lose to the politicians
who possess kaleidoscopic characters
verily, the chhaya of the ancient maya;
they change the statute once in the chairs
defying the wisdom of the Nation to suit their purpose
judges cannot undo.
They give anything to anyone, of any denomination
deny our heritage, destroy the land we stand on
to secure their position of power, right to misrule;
no party no group no policy or ideology has any value
if that does not serve them, does not satisfy
their hunger and greed;
rage for industries grow, farmers commit suicide
private contractors for every work throng
merits and wisdom are sacrificed
at the alter of caste and community vote;
newspapers serve many tainted and wrong news
with partisan attitude, features and letters
they publish conform to their views;
climate change and global warming
are the offshoots of mechanical, luxurious living
of the rich and the powerful.
Forgetting all these the youths of the country
Flee to foreign land for money and comfort;
the primitive trade is upbeat
women stand naked before the public
of their own accord,
human trafficking is a part of it.
What an age we are passing through!
Ecology destroyed, disharmony brought to Nature
Man-Animal relation worsened
by killing daily thousands of dumb creatures;
meat and leather industry
are the diabolic face of the humanity.
Gandhiji, a bad politician but great humanitarian,
wished cottage industry, real Panchayet and simplicity
lived on earth with earth on his head and body.
What an age we are passing through!
smile and guffaw, snigger and bravado, choking of voice
lead toward kakistocracy on piscine principle;
clutching each other’s throat with claws and talons
when men will fight to reach the nadir
a gigantic unknown vulture in its turn
will be ready to descend on him;
only then a chance may arise for us to see
a divine ray to rise to save us, free
from the heaps of a doomed democracy
through the real forerunners,
messengers of the God.




What Peace is Like
(Published but not in a book)


Peace is like the early rays of the Sun,
slightly auburn, spreading on the eastern sky.
Peace is like the mild setting Sun, sure of its return,
splashing colours on the western sky.
Peace is like the rising full moon, bright in its orb,
from above the rows of giant palm trees.
Peace is like the resting of the elephants
in a sward before the promised sunrise.
Peace is like the birth of an arc-rainbow
after the gale and copious rain.
Peace is like a sleeping pregnant cat
on top of the hay stacked in a burn.
Peace is like the child’s sucking sound
from the round breast of its mother.
Peace is like the deep silence of the wood
pregnant with promises near.
Peace is like the concurrent rain
spreading across the vale and dale.
Peace is like the trustful pacing of the child
holding his father’s finger top with nail.
Peace is love, Peace is smile
Peace is fragrance of the flower.
Peace is faithful surrender to the Divine
Peace is enchanting shower.
Peace has its last resort away from the earthly bower
in the Nirvanic void;
beyond the domain of science, history or logic
even as it baffles the ideas of Freud.
Peace is love, Peace is smile
Let the true Peace spread
Let this not be fragile.

(c) Aju Mukhopadhyay, 09