Glimmers of the Night

“On All that Strand

Glimmers of night. Glimmer, then a little dimmer still. Night is when we see. Where to see is to strain the eyes. That is when they come alive. All that cannot be seen in a shower of light. The little that remains at the edge of light is precious indeed. Population has decreased finally. The places are populated by themselves if not by others still. What is closed is open to images and texts betray reality, here in this half-light. There is death in the light. A death, full of coins: a face darker than ever in the light. In the dark is the jest, as it was in the beginning. The strides of movement make scratches in this dark. There you have a purchase on the dark. It better be. The pursuit for company and a slow scuttling sound. Someone has passed by just now but as if never been. Always but as if never! That is where they come alive. Images restore silence to objects. The waves have lulled them to sleep and everything is there in its final place, as it were. That is how they are…will be forever. The subdued glance of the little boy glides past the balloons waiting for the sky. They sit upon the empty chairs only to go up slowly into thin air. The strand gains the sky. Moment by moment. Moment upon moment. Glimmer gleaming on till dimmer and dimmest still. Night is the time to read love letters or obituaries better still. There is a lump of soil between the two.

At End of Day”


Arka Chattopadhyay

Pain

Everything goes

Such silence

That much too

Everything

Every such silence goes

A voice, known of old

Whispers in the past

Now addressed to others

Others only others

When that voice does not speak to you

Silence starts speaking

Pouring

Every pore goes

That much too

And that little also

That will also go

Silence in there still

It is bleeding

Riddling

What is unstated in love is stated in loneliness.
What is loneliness is not stated in love
What loneliness states as love is not stated in loneliness.
Love digs into leave-taking as if death had nothing to do with it...

Inching

A word

Once a name

Is now a word

Again.

She has crossed aslant the name.

Smiles upon the rain and a skirt held up

Leaning as if submitting to his shoulders

Was not submitting to power itself.

She could well observe

How age turns prayers into wails.

An aged word

Desperate

To create new associations

Moving towards the dark

Where names do not drop

Anymore

On praying hands.