The city is a graveyard of images.
Buried they lie under a sky
that is forgotten by the people of the metropolis.
Criss-cross run the wires overhead
like the lines scribbled on the hands of the other by her lover
in an age when innocence still made them smile.
And here lie the old tram tracks
weary and battered and senile.
Here and there wander about like hungry beggars,
lost little roads who have forgotten their paths.
The city has robbed them of their dignity and of their wrath.
They sob now with all the others, solemn and unheard
in the smoky light of the last long lamp-post;
The sentinel of all that has come to be
and of that which is yet to unfold.
It nods gravely and muses, the city is a graveyard of images
and all its stories will forever remain untold.
3 comments:
I was there on the tracks at dawn. Reading your poem I can see them now. Differently. Yes, senile is a nice word today.
A blog full of poems deserves wordpress. Typography is important dude. Come on over. Import everything today!
I know what you mean about typography. Maybe these poems deserve a better address, but I am a little old-fashioned. I like things being quaint and I like things being a little imperfect.
I think we've reached a world which is too perfect you know what I mean, too much photoshop and too much lip-gloss.
Sometimes a badly set poem can set some things right. Sometimes :)
I am glad you liked my blog, do keep dropping by. I don't update often or as often as I would like to... but its really nice to know that people drop in to read my stuff!
PS: Sorry for the delayed response, I am a little slow :)
Son op Kisana, beware! That's the very brand of bullshit on Kolkata trams that got Jibanananda killed. What?! You didn't know this? He was murdered by the tram authorities after writing:
"Shey nodi shishir hijal tara shakha/tramer steeler liney dhaka"
They also buried this poem in the dungeons of National Library's Rare Book Division from where it has been recently unearthed and published.
And a badly set poem is in no way old-fashioned, nor is it quaint, and it most ceratainly CANNOT set things right in a world which is too perfect or in one which is not!
It's just plainly full of shit! Hell, I din't even realise I was reading a poem until I found Jibanananda's influence! Hee hee ektu dekhben sar. Just playin'!
Now, all said, it's really a beautiful poem. Having witnessed your frivolous shifts of style (under the veneer template of 'finding my voice') through the influences of so many masters over so many years, I can't help saying that Jibanananda really suits you. You can be his Indo-Anglican ambassador!
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