Three Poems
Shamik Banerjee
The Companion
The road to workstead that I pass,
Is mid-width with over-turfed grass.
A composure of soundless air,
Circulates 'round this lode allwhere.
No bird, no squirrel here does trace,
And this is an unpeopled place.
At morning, it is very toom—
Only some trees the sideways groom.
At day, the Sun's my attendant,
And its sunlight my confidant.
No wheelbarrows, no cycles roll,
Except me pads here not a soul.
At mirkning when I'm homeward bound,
A stomping and a clomping sound,
Is clear-heard from a pair of boots,
Beside this path where came new shoots;
But no one there is when I see;
I know naught of this company.
And all I know, with me it walks.
It nudges not, neither it talks.
It always keeps a genteel meeting,
Yet never has it made a greeting;
But I think, in me, it did find
A like and amicable mind.
What startles me is that it turns
Once I have crossed the field of ferns,
Its alacrity then does fall,
When we approach a Cedar tall
With cross-shaped boughs upon its bark,
From there its footings, I don't hark.
In Autumn
It's autumn and my spirit is reborn
Like Dahlias that bloom in orange shades;
My heart is cheerful, so this lovely morn
I'll take my steps towards the olden glades
Where once I held my Amber's silken palm
And spoke those words a lover longs to say,
And sauntered by the bluebells sweet and calm
Like freeborn clouds that drifted by that day.
Three years have flown by since she found a place
Amid the realm of God, beside His eyes;
I've never missed this date since then to trace
This spot of our love's tale. Love never dies;
It lives for me among these silent leas
And in our symbols chiseled on the trees.
An Anniversary
My dearest Cynthia, I kept my vows
On this day of our anniversary.
I sweeped the breezeway, pruned the Beech's boughs
And watered the long-swagging Peony.
Our bed is neatly done; a coverlet
In crimson-murrey is upon it spread.
At eve I'll play your favourite cassette
And on my bosom gently place your head.
As promised, I have lacquered your long nails
And helped you don a camlet red and bright,
I've locked the door to mute all outer wails
And shut the louver to dim out the light.
Long you have said, "My husband gave me naught."
Now look at you—all complaints are suppressed.
Now maybe you are smiling at this thought—
'My husband's good although he's not the best.'
How meekly now you're sitting on the chair,
Your cheeks don't have the former fury's mote—
I wonder: If your habitude were fair,
I wouldn't have used that blade against your throat.
Shamik Banerjee is a poet from India.