Prithvijeet Sinha's Poems
My eyes wait for that perfect morning hour,
the day dawning with rekindled sparks to spare
and I know I'll be looking at new beauty repossess this haunt of mine.
I choose the river, always,
actually the riverside,
walking along the only serene edges of concrete,
to still feel I'm human,
in love with the forms of these men I see,
soaking up sweat
and easing the portent of life and death,
with just a kind look
or a sincere smile,
held a little longer, yes,
or deflecting a meddling sun's revival as an orb of blinding light at nine.
What they see is a boy in love with these elements,
the changing moods of this eternally stoic river
and a different tinge and hue to these familiar faces,
so in complete love with the way the sky seems to melt,
with their exhaustion;
and the water tempts them with a shared communal ablution,
to wash away their unsavoury birth marks
and egos bigger than that,
designed for them by heretics and bigots.
I'm here to say, ' I see you'
like the two of them,
friends or lovers or strangers,
knowing each other for as long as this vista makes them open up to each other,
for these meetings.
Those two men.
They have a heart for feeding birds,
or just being in love with this river;
as those little crumbs trail their fifteen minutes of solitude.
I'm here to say, ' I see you'
for your solidarity,
for your united front,
for the lushness of those everyday spirits.
I'm here to say,
'I see you',
all you lush gardeners pruning nature,
to its nifty, verdant former glory since March
as I see little boys on bicycles wearing smiles under masks,
reflecting eyes of youth
and there are assorted lovers tanning their dry souls on the riverbed.
They call their best friends from the other side of the riverfront,
some daring to swim that short distance of a stone's throw away,
some saying that the boat rides till the red bridge will be underway.
I see you
as you see me.
Weren't we all strangers previously and will remain so?
But these mornings are the best
and we all have our photographic memories to spare,
for each other.
We know our eyes will no longer wait for a kindling spark alone,
as we look at beauty repossess this haunt of ours,
waiting with bated breath for that blessed morning hour.
I am haunted.
The flowers that I plucked from the garden,
to mark some legacies,
have become garlands,
arranged for the beloved,
fallen bird whom I buried,
his face down under the shrubberies,
entranced by his final sleep and an
And petals drip and drop,
falling into open mouths
as family names leave with the nip in
far beyond cosmic dilemmas.
I am haunted
because my departed bird has left his
and flown over the tip of the temple,
as I imagine,
uncaged and free among the
evergreens, the river.
In the spot below the dead flowers,
where I buried him,
is where his still wings sleep.
There was a garden there,
some unfinished moulds of potteries
lay in a neat column,
with roses meant to fill their round,
and we promised to fill them each
and practice some gardening of our
I put some dead flowers pressed together,
in cellophane sheets,
take them home,
wash them clean,
to watch them wither and be blown away,
like charred paper;
and then muse with an elegy in my soul,
for their asphyxiated last breaths
before I saw them hence.
For flowers grow out,
for the decorousness of experience,
the euphoria of youth,
for the silence in which we caressed
each other's bodies with rose petals.
Some grow, shrivel or are inflamed in
with sagging, wrinkled last sighs
and their scents and faint colours
limn bones in the last sounding of the conch.
Flowers are the only ones who make
on tables where Grandma kept them,
to adorn her morning tresses,
to use their fragrance to press
together our spirits buoyed by smell.
On that very table are her spectacles,
little, inconspicuous microscopes
that read between the lines,
to find multiple histories embedded within.
Everything haunts me now,
because flowers carry their scents
from twoscore years before,
hidden in cupboards and strangled by
spines of books nobody reads
It haunts me
because I have left little flowers
everywhere for clues.
The question is,
what messages will I be leaving
behind with them
as discovery is yearned for now?
My flowers make do with that anticipation.
NOTE: both these poems were self-published by the author on his WordPress blog AN AWADH BOY'S PANORAMA around August to September, 2020.