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Cover photo by Stephen Jenkins
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Somewhere
Somewhere that is home,
Somewhere where I can be,
The way I want to be, sans
The cantankerous clatter of everyday,
sans the cacophony of regrets,
sans the solitude –
comfortably dampening,
Sans the weight of pain,
sans the lingering loss
like rancid taste in the tongue –
I would like to dwell, in that place –
Where it’s ease, after losses of labour,
Where everything that’s untasteful
is tastefully arranged,
Where solitude is like
a silent soothing symphony
not sequestration,
I love to be there, I yearn to be there
Where like a blanket of warmth,
I am surrounded with
a secure breath,
breathing of jasmine scent, and
an
Ethereal essence of
Being free.
°
First published in Bridge Ink
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Twilight in Maidan
The time is godhuli –
Tangerine sky – a dandelion skin,
The – light green of grass spread
Like a Persian carpet
I sit, hands splayed
Washed over, in the peach of rays –
In a distance,
Soiled, splattering dust-
The panorama
in its unbound expanse
Embracing me –
As I sit, grounded,
Feet forming
an isosceles arch –
I sit –
Absorbing the remote aliveness
Of my otherwise busy city,
Watching the glasses
Of honey – green,
All blending, blending
Inexplicably serene.
First published in Voices De La Luna
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Nostalgia
Platinum sheen glows
Mangata Lake dazzles
Morpheus midnight.
Myriad mirth-moist
Memoirs murmur in mind
Of lilac lanes,
Mellow essence
Loss-litanies,
And latent pains.
Songs of spring
Carefree days
Figment flights
All gleaming like rose gold moon.
°
First published in Fuse Manchester Magazine
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After Fall
Trust the snowy tug,
the signature breath,
The chalky sense of its harbinger,
When the bareness splays over
the ribs, veins,
Nerves and neural pavements,
As blizzards on the screen of memories
When the orange wholeness, the sepia wet,
Brown tanned sandalwood skin
of the wooden horizon
Is awash with the deep solitudes
of cold nights.
Believe in its crockery, its
empurpled lustre
And somnolence of soft petulant breeze,
Believe in the woollen wondrous knots
Of fibrous fermented retreat.
Believe in how this blanketed
Wintered monsoonal lone,
Might peer through the mist
And cloud of rue, seeping through
The hollowed membranes
in skeins of longing,
Into the darker, enlightening
Incandescence,
the soothing symphony of love.
°
First published in Sylvia Magazine
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S. Rupsha Mitra 2021
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S. Rupsha Mitra is a writer from India with a penchant for everything creative. Her works can be found in literary magazines including Pif, opia, Fly on the Wall Press.