Poems by Seshendra Sharma

The Burning Sun

a poem by Seshendra Sharma

I am the drop of sweat, I am the sun
Rising from the hills of human sinews,
Hearts are my friends

I live in the city of sufferings
Although in my fist, I hold an ocean of history
I sculptured man silently –

Wings that carried birds
Did not bring them back;
I am drinking thick darkness
In the haunts of those forests
Which cry out in agony for the birds
That did not return;

Clutching at the garment woven of memories
I twine myself to the feet of my country.
Heads that were hanging to the trees
Smile as flowers today in the branches
Hearts that received the bullets

Ring in temples of our land like bells;
Blood of theirs nights squeezed and offered
By how many to bring forth this day;
They are hanging like icicles
On the ridges of our roofs;
Look, it is an iron fist I have;
I shall excavate the flame of light
From the rocks of time –
I will set fire to the sleep of resisting centuries –
To the rivers that run in passion after the sea

I cry halt, command them
To paint the colourless arid lands in green,
Invite back the smile which fled away
In terror from this land,
To the butterfly trudging hungrily for a flower
I shall give a garden –
Come children, eat
Bits of nights dipping them in moonlight,
I shall not allow the sun to cheat this sacred day

If he wakes not on the horizon of this land
I shall tear my burning heart
And put it in its place
With the scarlet of my living flesh
Illuminate the earth
I am the drop of sweat, I am the sun
Rising from the hills of human sinews

Rivers and Poets

a poem by Seshendra Sharma

Rivers and poets
Are veins and arteries
Of a country.
Rivers flow like poems
For animals, for birds
And for human beings-
The dreams that rivers dream
Bear fruit in the fields
The dreams that poets dream
Bear fruit in the people-

* * * * * *

The sunshine of my thought fell on the word
And its long shadow fell upon the century
Sun was playing with the early morning flowers
Time was frightened at the sight of the martyr-

A Flying Guitar

a poem by Seshendra Sharma

The bumblebee, which came
Into the room from the sun
Like a flying guitar
Wakes up the sleeping melancholy.
The trees standing with its fingers
Dripped in the yellow
And dispassionate sky
Draped in deep blue
Suspends me like a feather
In a remorseful painting of still-life-

Out over there,
Stands the season of Indian summer
Bathing the objects in the pouring sunshine;
Wind lies motionless
And bird passes across
Drawing a line as it were
Between the two worlds of motion and stagnation
Time flows into
Infinity in the silence of man and melody
The bird in the midair, balancing itself
With its wings in a horizontal line
To achieve motionlessness,
Is a wall clock in the sky
With its hands
On three and nine-