Poetry by Nandini Sahu
Sometimes I ponder
are my country’s limbs
crushed down somewhere
in the busy traffic of a metro
while freedom hides
in its sixty-fifth year
under the bed of the battered baby
deserted by parents, unknown,
in the trauma centre of AIIMS, New Delhi,India?
“Average three infants deserted daily
in the capital”—reports
the daily newspaper.
My fingers nimble
by the cold wind.
in the hurt air.
Here, molested children
and abandoned old parents
prize their freedom
in wakeful dreams.
I scream inward
to refurbish the old world.
The sun is a falling rock.
In my ignorance, I wish
to end this season
the chaotic drum beats freeze around me
turning into twister pillars.
Each hour, each second
pass through my waiting veins
like the shadow of a triumphal arch.
I try to understand the only freedom I discern
the freedom of the womb
and freedom of the ashes.
Freedom hides somewhere
in the contours of my
country’s body, alien.
I am the wind to blow the lights off
but I am the sturdy flame too.
I see and don’t see my body parts.
I flow down and undo the dichotomy
keep hanging and smiling
between the perished and the perennial.
Sandwiched between verbs
I am the subject at the core of being.
Whirling water, clean and clear
you assemble the broken pieces
in your graceful curves.
Newton’s apple fell.
Why didn’t you turn your back
rather than suffering the dissection?
A net is knit.
Overwhelmed clothes flutter wet
but you swallow your thirst!
You erode my heart
with eerie solitude in sweltering days.
The red hot desert is my lot.
Come winter and my caravan clamors.
A violet river flows
lost in the mist-nets; I chew off time.
A titanic bird flies silently
takes wings above the dark stream.
Avoids off-trodden skies, blossoms.
After all… time and tide, past and present
wander, tripling water on new-moons.
The breeze recklessly swings day and night.
Tears theorize with condensed waters
close accounts with history.
Tears burst a sovereign destiny to time.
While catching the path that you liked
for a second, even a fraction of a second,
it dazzles your soul.
Tempests of thousand years
sculpt into shapes
stand in a corner with empty-handed modesty .
He is nowhere here or anywhere.
Very much there in
the spirit sans love.
My sleep and sleeplessness
Is someone awake in me?
He doesn’t pray for us.
When our pain pops up
the pressure gets us underneath.
You are an epic.
Go back, securely, silently go back
Your hay day may rear back!