THUMBPRINTNE POETRY COLUMN
POETRY EDITOR ANANYA S GUHA'S COMMENTS: Gargisri Goswami’s poems have a melodious haunt. The inner rhythm of the poems are skilfully crafted with rhyme which is not regular, but come almost fortuitously. There is also a mystical exuberance in the poems -- the night, the moon, unknown people build into the poems a kind of mysticism, there is delight in the very handling of the craft.
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Take me back to July
It's still July.
Everyone's on a slow afternoon.
The ice pops are frozen, dipping down the cheeks.
No one's at school.
Burying the heads in the magazines to drool.
Too hot for a play: too fun to stay,
inside the rooms.
A mango, a guava, a pineapple, a melon.
Savouring the ripe, tabling the lawn.
It's still July.
No one has found a rock that can skip the river end.
A show to pull off so grand.
The laughs are shrill, the moments of bliss.
A run to the temple.
A swim with the fish.
When they counted the stars on the roof,
Slept sound and time.
A life they lived, of hues and hymes.
People were children.
And it was still July.
Wake up dear, call the home goodbye.
Noone's chasing kites,
But hunting feral nights.
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The kiss to the voices
My mind gave away the kiss to the voices.
I was told to hold the fortress, to count from the end. To count till the next kiss.
I was brave to draw the lines, fill them in greys and pastels,
And oranges.
I heard every hue crying my name, crippling into the game.
Did the Gods wreck this place? Did the Man digest the light?
My mind gave away wisdom to the whole.
Or towards the bodied hole.
I was honest to love the moon, the wind, the globe.
I saw the envy in the crest, the trust in the breeze, the care in the sphere.
Did I also see lust in the stars? Did the dust wage those wars?
Not a vulture craving the dead. Not a sea bullying the land.
Every dance of the stone statues fills me with hunger.
My eyes brushed the music from the skies.
The wager to catch every note that dripped down the highs.
I was eager for the bards’ whispers, the theatrical opulence.
A day might come when I can eat the voices again.
Pick out the coffin for the blooms: nested in my room.
My mind gave away the heart to the symphony, the coldness, the ghosts.
I believed the prophecy, no more lonely treachery.
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Where have I been?
I was lurking in plain sight, in the broad daylight.
Amongst all the silhouettes I too merged. Against the current, I surged.
Where does my day end? Where does it even start?
In the nights, at the end of the charts.
I was a roaming pedestrian. A housing bird. An ignorant onlooker.
Every nook and corner, I see myself hidden.
Yet in my head, I danced to the mundane.
When have I missed the calls?
I was speaking to all, loud and clear in the halls.
I am too shy; I am too benign.
When have you heard me cry?
In the long lines we stand, in the gaps I try.
I was a foreign. I was an island. A tip-toeing poet.
Where have I been?
I was lost yesterday. Into the lights. Folding my eyes.
I braved back here.
Back to the fear. Gasping at the brinks. Dreaming of my inks.
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FRAIL WATER
Just the good heaps of tented grains.
Felt wetted and drowned.
Palaces fell but a king was crowned.
Even spring let out a deaf tone,
for the gods could moan.
...find a fish in wet coats.
Find a hoax in fish-boats.
The rented eyes of the greed now saw a brief,
of the timed and dated grief.
Just the grounds found numb
Streets and lights dimmed but
Forged dams quit the dumb.
Always seen in poses with satire,
Statues ripped off their attire.
The fields of my forefathers that yielded and
gifted.
That broke the rises and was forever shafted.
Just a good heap of shunted, piled dreams.
Left with a noise of the still....
Felt wetted and drowned.
The frail water on the ground.
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Peace sits here
The serene face that soaks the sky.
Grants a calmness: rages a storm.
It’s beyond the seen. Above our minds.
Like a bindi, the redness of the moon on the still face......
Beckons a light, faint yet powered.
Peace sits here.
The sky seems at peace.
----------------------
I saw a home
An unseasoned rain left me sheltering here...
A house with a noise and tear.
I stood in the verandah. Drenched and cold.
A little window to peek within. I couldn’t hold.
As I saw inside-
The light bulb flickering: a faint glow traverse
.... through the corners.
The dripping rain: a flavoured scent
of mud,
Those damp and sooty walls: the frail roof becomes the stud.
Old newspaper used as wallpaper;
A small radio humming, cracking and humming again...
The kids tucked in beds, smelling the rain.
The elders gather a few vessels, to collect the dripping waters.
This home among the quarters.
The wheezing sewing machine; a small wheeler to tour the family.
To feed: to eat; to live, to dream; happily.
A family to go with: a home to come back to.
Dearth mocks the man: then resilience leads to wane.
No splendour, no story.
A heaven above their dome,
A home, sweet home.
ABOUT THE POET: Gargisri K. Goswami is a master's student (Life Science) at Tezpur University, Tezpur, Assam. Along with academic writings and lab journals, she squeezes in time for books and poetry. She has been writing since high school: about dreams, nature, people, which now have metamorphosized to society, childhood, beliefs. She was also on the editorial team for the Tezpur University annual science magazine, ANUNAAD in the year 2023. She has published her poems in newspapers and magazines. She has also published in an anthology, The whispers of the past.
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