Sobhan Pramanik

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In the clearing of trees,
where in a hammock we splayed out,
lowering our eyes to the blemishes of sun
and napped—my chin to your nape,
your waist to my stomach, 
two human commas, pausing
their life sentences to be each other’s;
now lies a deep abyss, filled with burnt out 
suns of solitary days.

(Read in caption)

This motionless Agra sky like a chalky dust hat, hangs from the finial of Taj. Its enormous yellowing dome roofs the mausoleum like Time’s blessing palm frozen over History’s head; housing deep under in sacred stone chambers, the ivory remnants of star crossed lovers. In its huge curvy shadows, Yamuna passes like a muddy brook. Dark and ash grey; awash with the spirits of dead, rolling on eternally with sea dreams in its quotidian waves. Coils of sunshine drip from the alcoves, of soot wrapped minarets where birds return for the night. Behind, in the Shalimar, Chrysanthemums have closed their eyes, wilted under the sun; and the sighing willows at the distance brush the grin of admirers and fog cameras, with the charred sulphurous breeze of a bustling city. Yet, on a full moon night invariably the pavements fill up – amazed laughs dribble through gaping mouths, watching the wonder reborn. In the cascade of silver light as the shadows slowly recede, the heavens send down a million-stars blush and lovers clutch hands in longing watching their reflection in the pool, for Taj redeems from the dark draped in the blue of night, and dazzle – like all the jewels of the universe heaped at once by the banks of Yamuna; of a painter’s luscious dream conceived in the eyes of his muse; and a poet’s beautiful thinking hand, ink smelling, love-loss smelling, hope smelling striding the pages in a lyrical delirium. Fragrant wind pants through the archways, honouring dead poets whose verses float on the bejewelled walls, engraved in sensuous calligraphy; stopping at the foyer for a while, beneath the echoing marble sky, delving into an indecipherable hush-hush with the ghosts of dead lovers, before rushing headlong out to the gardens. I look out at the wasted earth of our being. Deserted meadows of fruits trampled to dust, and thorny hedges growing in the alley where I remember having pulled you aside to kiss your lips, to touch your smooth midriff. In the clearing of trees where in a hammock we splayed out, lowering our eyes to the blemishes of sun and napped—my chin to your nape, your waist to my stomach, two human commas, pausing their life sentences to be each other’s; now lies a deep abyss, filled with burnt out suns of solitary days. I wonder if you will ever return with a full moon in your thoughts, and replace the fallen crown of our legacy. Trust me for once, if you do, no heath will be too arid for flowers to bloom again, no sky too morose to cast a blessing rain. And in the clearing we shall lie all over again, chasing gold deers and swimming in rivers, inspiring this new generation with our old, eternal love. In this deep ravine of longing, will you not seek to redeem our pride by restoring our history with your forgiveness, for the world to swoon, like Taj Mahal on moonlit nights? © Sobhan #YQBaba #poem #History #love #YoPoWriMo

16 MAY AT 22:59

...it is those safe choices, the people we have let catch a glimpse of our broken within, knows deep under our skin, precisely which quivering nerve ending to touch, to settle our anxiety into a peaceful breathing rhythm...

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No matter how much we let life open us up, there are always these few safe choices secretly retained back. Say a bottle of water that we remember to carry while leaving home on a scorching summer day; antidiarrheal pills, Band-Aids and antiseptic solutions we don’t miss while packing for a trip; or the go to food we end up ordering in an uptown restaurant after its sprawling fancy menu fails to rouse our faith. They are so much like the ace we sometimes hide in the inside of our palm— not wanting to play, not wanting to let go, lest it makes us vulnerable and waiting till the very last before turning to it, unleashing its commendable potential of turning fates around whenever brought to table. Such reliability is not just restricted to lifestyle choices and stretch inevitably into our lives. And guided by our fears, the uncertainty of fall, we learn to love. Making reserves out of people we open our hearts to and not for a billion dollars or the most gorgeous face in this world, wish to trade their presence in our lives. For it is those safe choices, the people we have let catch a glimpse of our broken within, knows deep under our skin, precisely which quivering nerve ending to touch, to settle our anxiety into a peaceful breathing rhythm. © Sobhan #YQBaba #life #prose #philosophical #choices

15 MAY AT 21:48