Two Poems by Bimal Guha
History
Time is running out fast.
In the distant bamboo-grove
An evening-owl hoots.
A patch of dark clouds
cautiously advances.
It seems that they are all ready
to swallow this earth
any moment now.
I look at my fingers and
see black splotches there.
One-third of our earth is filled with
water. Will all that water
be enough to wipe out
our disgrace?
The Himalayan mountains
break out in laughter,
the sunlight appears dull and pale.
Time is running out fast.
Standing alone on the street
I watch a flock of wild ducks
flying away in the distance,
I watch them as long as I can.
Will they take the same route
when they return? Will they give us
the warmth of their white feathers
as they flutter their wings
behind those gathering clouds?
How many ages have gone by
as I stood at the corner
of the main street.
A number of poets also
used to gather there.
Some had walked away
without a single backward glance,
some had taken a different path,
some looked for a different route.
Those of you who are new,
lift your eyes and
look at them who are
sitting in a circle.
Remember them, they are
our poets. They are the persons
who write the history
of the Bangalees
on the bosom of the sky.
Flies
On waking up from my sleep
I saw some large fat flies
lying on my reading table.
The buzzing sound of memories
Continuously moved away
further and further.
I saw on my table
my penholder, the case
of my glasses, unused
sheets of paper and my pen.
All on a sudden
a shaft of sunlight
landed on my old reading desk
while large fat flies
went on flying making
a buzzing sound that badly hurt my ears.
And greedy flies of memory
sought the remembrance
of an ancient memory
in the pages of my diary.
On waking up from my sleep
I saw some large fat flies
lying on my reading table.
The morning sun was busy
picking out the dust of weariness
from their inert wings.
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