Homeless.

At the midnight, when street lights make
chiaroscuro on the face of unknown straggler,
someone raps on the door 'are you home, my sweetheart? '
He stands-like a lonely tree on meditation,
like a wind rustling through the leaves,
like an old refrain 'are you home? '

The sweet pain numbs my heart for a while-
the moon with pale face rises behind the curtain,
someone plays a note of my saddest dream,
a high wind from the sea blows away the curtain-
I stood naked before the night with awful question,
' are you home, my dear? '

poem by Aloke Mukherjee
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Sin of my loin

Oh! sin, today you've touched me

On the sandy dunes of the beach,

You have caressed me with your purple lips-

A foreplay to a song long forgotten.

Stay tonight- in the breeze from the island,

In fragrance of falling petals of time to be.

Tonight, I will cross the sea with your torso

on my shoulder. I shall touch the eyes of god

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poem by Aloke Mukherjee
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Lachung

Now, Lachung hugging me with warm blanket
To spend the night with dreams.
Why I come back to this snow-capped peaks?
Why the hullabaloo in the dining hall-
Why the thrown away beer cans on the snow?
Why the people come back here? why I come here again and again?

I have tears in the flask, the desolate evening in the rucksack-
I have covered the blue melancholy with jeans.

Degenerated we in living our life-
So this yearning for snowy grandeur
So this woman in front of me.

Yet this Lachung woman knows what
We mean to them-we are lots of money
in our wallets- we are glasses of wine
scattered around the day, we are the
Pollution, we are the people strutting in
Emptiness- this mountain knows.

poem by Aloke Mukherjee
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The train on the track.

I live in third world, may be second, I dunno.

Some savant sitting in his university-office, big

Ole daddy, divided earthly crust between ourselves.

I am one of the teeming millions, jostling in the

over-crowded trains, people hanging on the

door-handle. The train rolls on keeping us alive,

we move to and fro just to survive.I wish I could

derail the train to see what happens to my soul

in the cold night-train carrying souls in limbo.

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poem by Aloke Mukherjee
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On the rooftop

The day is overhung with cloud,

A curious dream alights on the rooftop.

On the verandah, I am drinking

A book of poems-it is a good day

for drinking a slow world.

Inside my brain, a line of song returns

-of Tagore, ' still you remember me'.

In this fall-leaves in pattern floats down on

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poem by Aloke Mukherjee
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