The palms of our village

These palm trees cogitate in groups,
Just as our mild-mannered cattle do,

Casting their dark brooding shadows
On the limpid waters of paddy fields

In the sowing season their shadows
Tickle our women’s bare naked feet
Submerged in soft knee-deep slush

When fields turn brown in summers
Our palms sport their golden fruits.

The male one in the shadowy corner
Has no fruits, only snakelike fingers.
We love it all the same for its shade.


In the blue mountains

The passions do not rise high.
The mountains gently shake
Shimmering silver oaks off
The wind in their hair.

These matronly mountains
Squat pretty in the valleys
Wearing their best velvet

The air here is tea-fragrant
As magical woman-fingers
Pluck two leaves and a bud
Hurl them in baby-baskets

Time hangs lightly between
Sips of tepid C.T.C. tea.

A boat trip on the Ganga in Kolkata

At nightfall , the  pretty Ganges
Wore black sequined satin dress
And a splendid necklace studded
With inverted lights under bridge.

A flickering flame of the lantern
In our boat was reluctant to dance
To a passing wind’s death-tune .

Near a jetty was monstrous ship
Brooding over a dark loneliness
As its cavernous stomach ached
With darkest secrets of high seas.


The gold of it rises from pure sunrise
Of the balcony’s shadows yet to form,

Birds forming to wake sleeping home.
When they do they are vague vain v’s

Painted in a gold of dawn’s new sky.
Just juxtapose yellow leaf with paper,

The paper of a pink flower trembling
In deep awe before a passing breeze.

You have this pink plus yellow frame
Without its native hues of resolution.