Six Poems by Dibyajyoti Sarma

 

1/ We pick flowers

 

The flowers that bloom on our hills are red,

like the setting sun,

like my grandfather’s patterned loincloth,

like my mother’s mournful eyes now empty of tears,

like my brother’s bullet-ridden shirt,

like blood, our blood, which we spill indiscriminately.

 

The flowers that bloom on our hills are yellow,

like the calluses of my father’s hardy heels,

like my grandmother’s gums empty of memories,

like ripe rice grains,

like a piece of dried pork,

like the brass medallions of our ancestors.

 

The flowers that bloom on our hills are blue,

like the hill shrouded in mist,

like the shawl my sister wraps herself with,

like the city lights we spy upon on moonless nights,

like the vehicles on which they come to tell us to behave,

like the sky, our sky, without shade, without change.

 

2/ We reject our gods

 

Keep your gods to yourself, I have my own,

not locked away in a shiny altar, but free,

like breathing or like the idea of democracy

 

My god is a nonbeliever, who has

forsaken the pleasures of heaven for this

polluted earth, this rancid existence

 

He resides within me, and he is not jealous

but joyous, not demanding, but curious,

about our wishes he cannot grant

 

An adventurer, my god is sick of the smoke

of the havans and the sweetness of the prasads,

and the luminance of the inodorous flowers

 

He is tired of giving, and now he wants to

receive what we have, this inexplicable capacity

for love, and these strange bursts of kindness

 

My god wants what I want, a handshake instead

of kowtowing, love instead of respect, flesh

instead of faith, blood instead of prayers

 

My god is a drunk god, who not only

listens but also speaks, not in dead verses

but in slangs picked up on the streets

 

Keep your gods to yourself, I have my own,

not locked away in a shiny altar, but free,

like breathing or like the idea of democracy

 

3/ River

 

The weather is such that

the river is bereft of water.

 

On the other side of the city,

inside an ice-cool room, a four-year-old boy,

on a blank sheet of paper with multicoloured crayons

draws a miniature river.

 

The river is filled with water, and

the boy courageously rubs blue crayon

on the white piece of paper;

the river overflows.

 

If he knew how to draw, the boy,

he’d have drawn a handful of fish,

a small boat, and on that boat,

a fisherman figure.

 

If he could draw, today, in the picture

of the four-year-old, the fisherman figure

would’ve collected his share of harvest

for a full meal after years of going hungry.

 

The weather is as such that

the river is bereft of water.

 

4/ Love

 

I die the day I love someone

and I do not have

anything to offer.

 

Empty is my pocket’s desire —

to keep a photograph too

I do not have a wallet.

 

Love is when

you’ve offered the world to your beloved

and you want to give some more.

 

5/ Things You Can Do with Your Lover’s Wedding Card

 

You can roll it and tell him to shove...

 

You can fold the card and make an origami boat

or a plane and tell him to go fly it.

You can scratch out the other name and

write yours instead and see how it rhymed better.

You can hold it close and cry a river and

smudge the print to find a blank orange paper

where you can write whatever you want —

about that perfect life you had with him

(the impressions of it, anyway).

You can burn the card and scatter the ashes

from your kitchen window, or keep them safe

in the copper urn he got you for your birthday.

You can keep the card between the pages

of your diary as bookmark.

You can, if you are an emotional fool,

write a suicide note on the back of the card

and implicate him for your death

(You can have the last laugh,

though you won’t be there to see it).

You can actually rejoice, say, ‘good riddance,’

and plan your next move.

You can plan to attend the wedding —

the food would be good, and you know

though you are hurt, you can

suffer only this much and you can

always stop thinking about him.

 

6/ Game

 

let’s play a game

you and i

                let’s play a game

                                you stand facing me

                                and i’ll confront you

you draw a circle around me

and i’ll draw a circle around you

                you draw another, narrower

                i’ll draw another, narrower still

you draw another

i’ll draw another

                                you draw a circle

                                and slice my toe to fit me within it

                                and i’ll slice your toe

                you hack my feet to fit me within it

                and i’ll hack your feet

 

let’s play a game, you and i

                you dig a hole and i’ll dig a hole

                                you bury me alive

                                and i’ll bury you alive

 

let’s play a game

you and i

                you kill me and i’ll kill you

                                in the name of the lines

                                which are not drawn yet

                in the name of the prophet

                who isn’t born yet

 

                                                let’s play a game

 

Poet, writer, editor and translator, Dibyajyoti Sarma runs the poetry publishing outfit Red River. Established in 2017, and based in Delhi, Red River has so far published 70 titles, including some of the well-known names in Indian poetry. His third collection of poems, Book of Prayers for the Nonbeliever, was published in 2018.