Gopal Lahiri
Crossing the Shoreline
Darkness lingers in sleep
dreamland disappears,
unmolested trees are still giving shade
of love and light,
Unknown alphabets draw humpbacked sand dunes
aligned in endless rows on the shore
of my sleep.
The mineral landscape draws each undulation
of my own breathing,
every location is in walking distance.
Go and receive the self.
*Published in Delicate Emission
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Orphan Smile
How hard it is for the stars to weave a story.
It breaks through the wall and chain,
and then in turn, with eyes closed.
Words filter into dark rooms,
unnoticeably, to the tune of the evening.
It is not unexpected, nor it is striped,
wood pencils sketch grey and grey sky.
Each strum is a haze that thins and fades,
the one who sings with all the heart
for a while, is now trapped in the web of memory.
Each mirror reflects the orphan smile,
what remains is the rising smoke of the pyres.
*Published in Fictional Caffe
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Palette
Everything here is bleary and hazy. I find
it hard to look at the mirror-like reflection
of a triptych, an altarpiece.
I imagine a gloomy palette in which the children grasp
shriek and release their cerebral abilities
with apparent pain and delight.
The red wall is filled with faces, the wall clock
sharing ghost stories far into the night with
a discernment, a nonchalance.
The mist comes in. The breeze is somewhat
grey, I only pray for early morning and then
I’ll talk about the rise of diastole and systole.
*Published Dreich Planet, Vol.1
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Biography
summer skies melt in deepest blue,
silk sarees bleed
colours of twilight,
stars tune music of burning night,
boats ferry unknown
faces in a haste,
birds’ tweet in sign languages,
the evening weaves
leftover handshakes,
a web of music from the piano strings,
play core repertoire
of solemnities,
lazy idioms now write
on your biography.
*Published in Spillword
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Random Reflections
Light drifts, changes,
day rolls into furnace, all fires are fire.
Then there is the blank space
The wall clock stops at quarter to nine.
A dust storm blows the tiny bird’s nest
The flowers fade, I don’t speak of it.
The afternoon shifts to the evening
with crumbly sigh, dimness sinks the needle in.
The voice of the winds like any old
memory, strays in the winnowed sand-yard.
My diary pages are open all night inside
the dark drawer.
And I learn to burrow in the dark yet
I shudder from where the Universe begins.
*Published in Amethyst Review
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