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| Morning Sudden shock of crows Tearing apart the fabric Of a slate-grey sky. Early morning flight Brings in weary travellers From a distant land. The paperman throws Stories of yesterday's world Within my four walls. Sounds of distant death Shatter the silence within My half waking mind. In some dark corner I hear the lizard ruling Its empire of death. |
| Arka Mukhopadhyay |
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| A Poem That Cannot Have A Title This poem (as its title says) Cannot have one, Because it is about The landscape of my everyday And that is a work in progress - You don't have a name for your everyday. Perhaps because it is too close to your skin, But what happens when your everyday, The streets that you exhale into all the time, Suddenly become separate, like a piece Of skin cut away? Like yesterday, When I sat at home, unable to get out Of the street I live on, because It was blocked by the cops at both ends, Because someone had thrown A pig's head into the nearby mosque, And so I sat in my room, listening to the sirens And wondering if 'they' would come to cut my head away, And where would they throw it, if they did? |