By Sonnet Mondal
The Lost Mango Tree
The mango tree which I reared
is lost today somewhere
in the jungle of my wishes.
I used to throw whole mangoes
in our backyard
to see them grow up into trees.
Not a single leaf sprouted
except from a half-eaten one.
After watering it in its infancy
I became engaged
wining and dining with my life.
After years — today
a mangrove in our backyard
shaded my memories
from the hard sun of forgetfulness.
I wish I had left myself
to the charity of wilderness.
Inception or Epilogue?
Over and over again
I was putting my drowsy head back
on the neck-rest as my driver sped
scraping the car through a jungle road.
My eyelids unlatched by the jolts
located an endless territory of trees
waving towards an isolated light —
showing up a path
that starts and ends in itself.
Thick trunks twisting off their weariness
imparted songs of faith.
Expansive fields engaged in a rapt gossip
with the skies removed the curtain of clouds.
The birds were silent —
No chirrup. No fluttering of wings.
They were stuck inside a web of hypnosis
stretched out by the mystical symphony.
And I moved as a trespasser with a faith
in the breathing canvass of silhouettes.
The alluring light in a distance
burnt as embers in a fireplace.
The world was within me
and I was everywhere outside.
In Front of a Burning Corpse
A corpse was burning in the burning ghat by the sea.
A dog was looking at me and whimpering.
Amid the flaming sounds and laughter of waves
the sea seemed to be in a gossip with the skies
and the burning corpse looked like an ignited cigar —
smoked by the rolling drunk waters.
I felt like an infant ghost watching its birth.
The tempting body caging the ghost
was leaving a world which loves to forget.
Breathing seemed as trivial as the cries of the dog
and life was no longer a doubt.
The roaring clouds above were like memories
warning of its presence to the transforming soul.
The flickering sodium lights were trying
to lighten the worth of loving and leaving.
All that was spoken and done
floated like vain lies over untiring waves.
I felt I was someone else
and while battling to become that someone else
I lost myself like a trifling dot in the infinity.
Sonnet Mondal is an Indian poet and author of Karmic Chanting, Ink and Line and five other books of poetry. He has read at international literary festivals in Macedonia, Ireland, Turkey, Nicaragua, Sri Lanka, Germany, Hungary, and Slovakia. His writings have appeared in several publications across Europe, North America, Asia, and Australia. Founder Director of Chair Poetry Evenings International Festival, Mondal edits the Indian section of Lyrikline Poetry Archive (Haus für Poesie, Berlin) and serves as the editor-in-chief of Enchanting Verses Literary Review. A guest editor for Words Without Borders, New York and Poetry at Sangam, India, his works have been translated into Hindi, Italian, Chinese, Turkish, Slovak, Macedonian, Slovenian, Hungarian, and Arabic.