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breeze, sword of time
dipak mazumdar
Breeze, breeze, sword of Time, inventor of illusions,
whistling memory at my window,
every flurry brings the smell of a horse¹s mane
which sweeps across the meadow,
I'm sitting in a balcony, home of many rain clouds,
watch the chapati-moon on ripples,
lake, an evening of serene,
compels me listen to pantings of pines,
sound of falling coins from a slot machine,
the traffic warden shakes her head of blue smoke
blinking vacant eyes of green tea leaves
swaying in a remote terraced garden,
three drops of sudden rain from sky
on my glasses blur this epiphany.
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no new year's day
dipak mazumdar
Round about midnight
my teeth start to clatter
as I scribble for a dumb waiter
stoned as a lord
by a cocktail
called leopard tail
his lunar hair
graceful sailing lonely
he makes ready the old stage
strobe lighting chorus girls
and high pitched electronic squeals of media lads
Turn of the century
and the ceaseless coming-to-be
it¹s always the same
there is neither end nor beginning
the night dissolving in inflamed neon eyes
buttocks hold me high
street lamps whitewash a puppet-mob
giving you a futuristic nod
frigid fatalistic
tomorrow¹s poster
is as one dimensional as yesterday¹s
I walked here tomorrow
I am here today
cold is the wind
cold is the crowd
my blue nose
is just a lego cube
The night blots out all memory
like a general flattening a city
the grin she tosses
a tired whore in a spaghetti western
a sustained frenzy of customers
mauling the floor with a dark murmur
the bar is starless
rowdy rugby horde bugling
you stare at cocktail shakers putting out their tongues
girls with peanut breasts puffing detached butterflies
The century turns on the pillow
the January morning is late in returning
in the flat a few things are waiting
freckles of a mirror
a towel wriggling on the floor
tactile and intense
a slumber dripping on my pate
images of a street flushing down the toilet
I slept here tomorrow
I¹ll sleep here today
blurred tenuous
the skyline of the year receding in my head
gently gently
sinking in the indifferent debris of eternity.
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venetian voices
dipak mazumdar
My squids were against the wineglass. Babel
Of viuces, tourists, shopkeepers, fables,
And myths were all in a puff of cigar.
I was soft as pigeons, a hungry explorer,
I hugged to my Karma
With the frenzy of a racing driver.
Realised, work, staff meetings, dinners
Are step-mothers. Talks on realpolitik,
All humdrum facts
Are worse than overcooked carrots.
The voices dragged me along,
Seductive, full of coconut-charm.
I walked through the terrifying
Beauty of lanes gathering
Penumbrae of gold, warships, and skeletons.
Precious metals hummed songs of rootless waves.
The men with blue-ribboned hats stood on the steps,
Knee-deep in water, their hands, fingerless,
Caressed the wounds of their boats.
Clear-eyed grapes glared,
Forced me to chew the steel blades of abyss.
I murmured, "Dear voices, I'm your honoured hostage.
Tell me what famished perfume died in this palace?
Days are fuming sulphur, evenings have a feminine grace,
At nights wolves in fountains, and feast.
Tell me how many slaves had stretched out on the ground
To feed the appetite of their elegant masters?"
The voices loosened their limbs,
Lifted above lagoon. I was left
With the stench and perfumed ashes
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