Sangeeta Medhi

Date of Publish: 2023-03-19

A few poems by Sangeeta Medhi

 

Silent Lession

 

I get engrossed

In whatever my dear one says

What is spoken is so little

What remains unspoken is wealth

He does not teach

What amount of firmness is necessary to make a tortuous path effortless

How one can stay spellbound in the constriction of cacophony

To maintain the demeanour amidst irritation

That one can build the barricade of infinity inside borders

He does not teach

How to infuse artistry in the blank spaces

How to fight a round in the bohemian illusiveness

The days and nights spent with him

Stay hanging like a canvas

colourless or with multihued layers

Look back at him

With the completeness of possibility

or scribbling with emptiness

and learn the lesson of self-control

Amidst abundance of eloquence

I hear a silent beat being reared

He does not ever say

About the colours getting dried up

or hazy self-confidence

The folktales of the firefly acquiring

the trick of saving the hues of rainbows in their wombs

Even after knowing well the harshness of world

He does not speak of any advance preparedness

He only stitches a path to hold the feelings of soul

Proceeding through which

one can ignore blinding sparkles without anyone

Thousand words gets drowned in stillness

He can speak so much in silence.

 

Before it Falls

 

Many things can be said before falling off

or else

An entire night can be dawned by looking back at the flowers of memory

But cannot bear in the shut eyelids thousands of bells of various options

Some things are better stalled before it falls into ears

Some happenings are better lost better it happens

Some paths are better walled before it makes way

It is better to hit a thicket

Before the bird with its broken wings falls spiraling down thud on the ground

It is nice to show the return path to the girl

As she recites the last poem with trembling voice

Putting hand on hand and bosom on bosom

It is nice to leave the body along the force of the cotton white yacht

In the dark moon night that is silenced by all the gloom in the world

It is nice to be able to stitch a path in the weightless speed

How nice it is to be able to drop off the teardrops of illusion

Before it falls down

Or sometimes it is much better

To pray once more

for the weariness lying heavy filling up the queue

before it falls over once again

 

Guest House

The shower of rain eagerly expected is yet to come down.

A wind is blowing

The glassless frames of the window covered with paper of the oldest Guest House in the town are getting hit repeatedly by the force of the wind.

A growth of wild herbs

Through the gaps of the grills spaced widely

Outside the window the scribbling of the growing banyan tree

Though a shower of rain does not visit the city

The window is damp and the room too

A pencil of ray of the afternoon Sun is an added feature of the room.

Guest come, guest leave

The guest house becomes full to its capacity, and gets empty again

The guest house turns tipsy in intoxication at times

Or else turns silent with the long call reaching the ears wafting in air

There is no religion of the guest house, no choice either

At certain times the guest house is full of aroma

The eyes crossing by hangs on the gaps of the doors of the guest house

Sometimes a drain flows by under the doors of the guest house

On the floor layers of dust dances and marches

The always expected shower does not reach

And a light breeze slightly shakes the guest house

The guest house knows it has no one as its own, neither anyone non related

Yet in between on a nonchalant midday at the chance of no one being present

It spreads the bleeding wound kept hidden in its bosom to dry on the floor

Repair continues, carefully manages by dusting and cleaning

Sometimes at this juncture a strict homemaker enters

The floor turns mirror clean

The cockroaches scattered by the spray makes the guest house feel lighter

New newspaper gets pasted on the darkened walls of the guest house

Calendar flutters on the clean dusted wall

God finds a shelter at a tiny corner

The guest house continue to look at everything – amazed.

Days roll by, a cup of hot tea spirals up by the window

Days roll by, the whistle blows at the exact moment

Days roll by, the homemaker grows new limbs

And the homemaker leaves one day with a smiling face.

Guest house understands it does not retain any memory

Neither there is tears of joy or burden of cholesterol

People come, people depart

The rain slated to arrive do not come

A gust of chilly wind shakes the guest house

The guest changes, the time too

Just eyes of the God with broken leg do not change

And the picture of the homemaker he continues to gaze through the cobweb and soot.

A Poem for Successor

Like the agony enveloped by senses

Limiting lines given to fingers

weighed down by words

It is as painful

as to adorn the empty memory and pitiable experience

to survive in the balancing line

without both getting lost

How can people carrying the agony

in their daily chores for the successors

lead a growing possibility without hassles

The aqueous fingers would shape up to perfection

A certain wave of power of life

Trousers of memory or charcoal of hunger

Where would the stumbling be placed neatly.

These days the sun of solitude burns

With many such arguments and counters thereof

It is kept alive with adequate fodder

The discussion on the poem

that I wished to compose for the successors

And the sun of my perception

Appears never ending.

Changing the Plot

"I bid the chords sweet music make

And all must follow in my wake"

-Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

 

Just at that spot an agony remain a stationary path in serenity

And we continue to peel off layers after layer slicing our original form

Will the time leave anything for something ominous to happen

Still I ruminate the time winning dreamer

Wandering from origin to self existent to search thousands of options

I get singed and burnt and turn into a mound of sand

Gradually I am unable to finish reading the life considering it a lyrical poem

And am not able to think

The change of scene as destiny

Yet can one put a long jump through a gap out of these in the infinity

And the footprints can be left undamaged

Don’t wish to leave without seeing it

Making the shadow of rest longer

Building a long path in the luxury of thought.

 

All poems have been translated from Asssamese into English by Bibekananda Choudhury

 

About the Poet:

Sangeeta Medhi is a poet, a lyricist and a film-maker from Assam. Her published anthology of poems is Puri Niya Tape Kobo Beli Kiman Gol. Her poems have been translated into Hindi, Bengali, and English. Her first short film, HaatKatha received Juri's Special Mention Award Chalachitram National Film Festival. She also worked as a journalist, a casual announcer at All India Radio, Guwahati and a teacher for some years.