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Taseer Gujral

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Taseer Gujral







THE SONG OF MAY BE

(1)

I walk in mottled light filtering through trees lining either side of my dream...dream is an instrument of seduction and trees are moral lessons.... i would rather sleep some more, maybe

(2)

The moon is a cliché now...this evening though, a compelling, golden, rain-kissed sickle hung atop my terrace. I gaped thinking of how i had always loved this imperfect image in my youth...i would stand watching it for hours, and it would beckon me to write a few broken verses or paint a lorcaesque image as an ode to its lust for becoming whole...and then maybe, maybe it didn’t remain so intriguing anymore as it gradually gained fullness...like maybe- the word holds a million possibilities. There could be a storm stirring somewhere between its five letters or there could be a languorous state of just being.... maybe- what a word! ...sopregnant, so full of possibilities and yet, so safe...with maybe one could never negate oneself or take risks....it suited me for i never was daring ..but no more....the moon is a cliché now and i am not sure i like the song of maybe as much

(3)

I notice you from the corner of my eye...at times you look like you, at times an apparition. You stand in the yard, arms akimbo, looking with longing at the ancient tree in the yard. All of a sudden, you walk towards the tree and shake it with all the strength in your slight body. As the confetti of dead leaves falls, i feel strangely light, as if you have mercy-killed dying parts of me. Then you direct your eyes at me - two bright suns that set me free. I fly and the apparition has dissolved into the shadows of green leaves

(4)

The path paved with stars is beautiful, though it is not for me. i was born to befriend the dark, to feel its balmy recess, to lodge in its anonymous comfort...i am the light folded in an upturned seam, the slight blue fog that is the opium haze of  poppy-red blood.... and at times, i startle when you pierce the dark to gaze at me, as one startles when electricity returns after an interval just long enough to make one get used to the discomfort, and by some strange design, turn it into a most comfortable interlude in the music of the night..and candles - i love them so much, maybe i could just live and die looking at a pearly white one, glowing, glowing as the dark love i feel inside me - molten, warm, sooty

(5)

I have a torn silk scarf...before heading for work tomorrow, will you come and sew up the bunch of red camellias together?- for i was never a good seamstress, and you are brilliant at your craft. please sew up though i know you do not feel anything…anything at all for me. It doesn't matter now…maybe

(6)

The room is closed to my presence, the door slightly ajar. Your form is draped in green silk. While you dress in your alienating finery, i sit on the verandah, counting the autumn that falls in the shape of golden leaves beneath the pear tree in the garden...both of us have been rendered unseasonal - the tree and i. The winter will set in with a kindness that will cocoon me in its blanket. The earth has burnt a lot this summer and needs more kindness. you nod and wipe the teardrops from your eyes. I get up to leave. I will return next summer - with glistening leaves and scented pears…. maybe

 

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Feature–Contemporary Indian English Poetry

Editorial
    Editorial: GJV Prasad

Poetry
    Abhay K
    Aishwarya Iyer
    Akhil Katyal
    Amlanjyoti Goswami
    Ananya S Guha
    Arup K Chatterjee
    CS Bhagya
    Debasish Lahiri
    Devdan Chaudhuri
    Dhananjay Singh
    Gertrude Lamare
    Goirick Brahmachari
    Joie Bose
    Maaz bin Bilal
    Malsawmi Jacob
    Meera Sagar
    Nabina Das
    Nitoo Das
    Priya Sarukkai-Chabria
    Rajesh Kumar
    Ranu Uniyal
    rizio yohannan raj
    Rochelle Potkar
    Saima Afreen
    Sanjeev Sethi
    Semeen Ali
    Shelly Bhoil
    Smeetha Bhoumik
    Srilata K
    Sudeep Sen
    Sukrita Paul Kumar
    Sumana Roy
    Tabish Khair
    Taseer Gujral
    Uddipana Goswami
    Usha Akella
    Uttaran Das Gupta
    Vivek Narayanan
    Linda Ashok

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