Milestone long poem

Photo by angelocesare

Quixotic life brings wonderful thinking
In such wee hour of foggy winter night
Sitting on the spacious balcony with rural setting
Feeling the favour of native care. With drowsy eyes.
It is not uncommon in recent
Thou has started to see the parades of dead
The deceased moments gathering enough dewy strength
Are focusing on your uneasy face.
The daily hours they spent rehearsing with uncanny aptness
The memories of those glorious years befriending thy tender hours,
When you found yourself confined in the sitting room
With handful gatherings of close range
Your friendly ears harkening all common discussions
Where problems of limited lives descended, in most
Inequitable manner, speeding the dinner calls with many
Unspent words hovering over platters,
Their early withdrawal for sleep never broke apart
Emptying the bed forever where they gathered.
The temple bells of your family origin
Rending daily calls for another, remembering
Of the most enlightened grinning face with a flute silent
With whom you had spoken often in an unusual voice,
At the time of your choice
Knowing well that he is not of your earth,
Thou had shown enough swiftness to trace his real self in day time
But received unjust disappointment from offering void
When sun was on pleasure run after timid mists of rural clan.
in the brief afternoon standing on lonely cornfield
thou pondered over the difference of the face of childhood beloved
and the diminishing face of a man not in flesh and blood. The steady horizon at western front
Expanded fast with downing sun
With whom you had unequal run along a tiny canal
Where fishes unseen were making frequent rumblings, breaking watery stillness
The full moon appearing autumn blue with asking eyes
To ignore your exam call.
you felt thyself a child of another world
Ever mingling with unnatural air
That blown enough over your house’s rampart.
At chilling January night you slept unwell
Listening to the hue and cry in unison
On riverside which your uncle settled, as voices of jackals feeling uncomfortable
On their roofless dens,
The struggling slumber inviting numerous trembling scenes
Alike the parades of dead, thy recent witness.
The tea given to you at evening was emitting crisscrossed dreams
Some of which are of known surroundings, rest are of
Gentle gatherings overseeing your grand mother
Who was iconic in those golden years.
The unspent words of yesteryear, the incomplete
Frantic calls of your dying father, are all playing at ancient field
Which you dreamt often in early dawn, with shadow of your second self
Still unborn, which may lumber if born.
That is why your shaking self hides behind the running pages
Of most lofty verses
Avoiding the masters’ call to decipher the unspent words they left.

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Shuvo Chakraborty

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lecturer and advocate in university and incometax tribunal. an english poet and diehard follower of john keats
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