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The Final Smooch and other poems by Moumita Alam


Eve by Anna Lea Merrit

Let's Give Birth to a New Day


I feel like kissing you

for the next thousand years.


Rivers are drying on our beds

The moss is turning into straw

The eyes of the dead fish are

Grazing from the stagnant ponds

The frogs are floating with their bellies

Flipped over on the fermented foam.

The half-burnt ravens are returning to land

On the roasted anthills.

The scorched forests are smelling of charred bones.

The worm-eaten feathers of the bluebirds are falling

From the dark sky.

Time has been frozen inside the sooty

round globe of the clock.

It's sneezing with third-grade pneumonia.

The seas have turned into cold stones.

The egrets are on their last flights.


In the shadow of this eclipse

I'm waiting for you

Let's make love.


Somewhere a crow is still cawing

It has mistaken the gloomy night as dawn

It's flapping its wings and thawing the snow

On its talons.


Let's make love sweetheart

The eggs are still warm in me

And your love is still fresh

Let's crawl into each other's skin.


In a distant village

A bell keeps tolling

Let's give birth to a new day.



On The Killing of My Tree


When the news of her killing arrived

I was walking down the village path

I didn't pause

Rather I ran fast

Like an escapist or a man

Whose house is burning behind

And he is running from the horrid visual.

How it feels to be homeless

Or to lose home one more time!

The keeper of my innumerable echoes

and the bruised memories of my childhood all

fell once again in the hands of the monsters:

We call them men.

I often wonder why after every meeting

A blister used to erupt on her skin!


It soaked my pain every time:

when I first realized I am a girl

and my childhood uncle loves to

play with the bud inside of my

flower printed panty

and my father is nothing but another predator

of another home

or my mom is a crying immovable utensil

or my first crush on that hippie boy

is the love I have lost forever

or my return from the marriage - the cage is not

a return actually.


The day my grandmother left

the shrunken folds of her skin:

the warm bag of my comfort

had become dead cold forever

and I rushed to hug my tree.

that day under her skin I saw

a caterpillar with many eggs.


Now it has gone forever

and left behind a cavernous wound.

The weather clock reports:

No Monsoon. No winter. No Spring

this year.

And the woodcutter's beak has turned

into a human appendage.



The Final Smooch

Two bluish tongues are in the deepest cave

transcending evanescence in melting layers

of the untouched indifference of ages.

In the mating of the sun with his lost planet

the rushing adrenaline is merely

a watcher in the thickness of the

red glued orchids.

Time has changed

the poplars by the roadside have

turned from infant green to dark green

to red and then fiery brown.

Teesta has become pregnant again

the algae have grown in open eyelids

the breasts have become the earth's timeclock

the quartz of their secretion has turned into

a moon on dark nights.

And the two tongues are

still going deep into each other,

the only hurdle before the earth's collapse

into a black manhole.



Where Do all the Frogs Go?


The midnight moanings,

the creak creak of an old rusty

wooden cot,

and the croakings of the he-frogs for the

she-frogs -

We have lost all in our jobless pursuit

and greed.

The empty stomachs are listless to the

early morning's pleasure now

The cot has lost its skeleton

The frogs are all dead

The rains are breeding pesticides


In a basti of a megacity

Still, the door is wide open

Zamila's tired eyes are drooping

No customer is visiting these days

Her mother is turning her eyes away from the sky

A patch of dark cloud is hovering in her bosom.

 

Moumita Alam is a poet and essayist hailing from the northern part of West Bengal who writes poetry in both Bengali and English. Her poetry collection The Musings of the Dark was published in 2020. She also writes for the Bengali daily newspaper Uttarbanga Sambad.


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