Poems by Bolaka Debroy

Boulevard under Orange

a poem by

Bolaka Debroy

Otherwise blind it is- the alley by my house,
Covered in pitch darkness of the nocturnal sky
Orange glimmers break the blindness however,
Twinkling from a frail lamp-post, weathered now.

A handful of pedestrians, frequent this unfrequented lane occasionally :
Navigated by that glinting apricot lantern
Held up against the ebony blanket of night sky,
As if by an illusory noctambulist, guiding their way,
Safely to their nests- slung at the bottom of the backstreet…

Tinkling their way through, peddles the rickshaw-pullers,
Visible only when under the saffron sodium-vapour lamp;
And then melting harmoniously with the blackness stretched yonder…

The bottle green coconut clan, now shadowed by the inky hue,
The reeling breeze caresses every fixed tree and every gliding soul;
A pleasantly queer ataraxy, hovers through this avenue;
Rejuvenating my sweltered core at the twilight of every sunrise…

That orange twilit alley by my house:
Lying in perfect seclusion from the city’s anarchy,
Untouched by earthly chaos or agony;
Trance-like in night’s tranquility…

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A Fugitive Mind’s Servile Lamp

a poem by

Bolaka Debroy

Diligently bestowing its largess profound,
Beamed that light, alabaster, on His desk abound
Beamed it night after night, with a hope consummate:
To glance its master, some day- when fortunate!

Came not He, came not true, that hope consummate;
For the master is of a different sort;
His evanescence- constant- from one to another port!
Devoir cannot shackle him, shackles him not any forethought-
Free is he, from man’s anxiety and chills of tomorrow’s lot!

But that light profound, beaming diligently found:
Night after night, with that hope consummate
Flicker it did not, retreat it could not,
For duty bade it, to lie await…

But its master is of a disparate sort,
Now in an ancient fort; then at an eerie moat;
Gawking at a child- squatting under the glimmers of street light:
Books in his laps reminds
Beaming is My light profound, but I am not to be bound…

Because master I am of my own destiny,
Beaming they find me, when in true symphony;
Breathe I in shore afar- saunter in lands, barren of bars;
Wake I under the Orange ball- slumber beneath the twinkling stars!

Because fugitive I am, of a distinctive sort
Steadfast is my evanescence, from one to another port!

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