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Three Poems by Mitra Samal

Three Poems by Mitra Samal


My porch is empty after discarding the

shrivelled plants you had abandoned.

Your goldfish died last week, only the

empty bowl remains, devoid of emotion.

I couldn’t find the dull shade of purple lilacs

for your crystal flower vase.

Each crystal now stares at me with

wide empty eyes.

There is a blank page in my diary where

I wanted to write a sad poem for you

but I felt a void in my brain.

My coffee mug which you had painted

with much ardour won’t see the bin

but will never be filled again.

The bare walls of my room from which

I have stripped our pictures

want to make peace with me.

I sit alone in our favourite café

with the rich aroma of baked breads.

It no longer mingles with your

strong perfume and fades away.

The dark clouds outside will pass and

maybe the ones inside me too.

Evening Shift

I walk on the wet grass.

Its smell reminds me of my

grandma’s unkept garden.

Few heads turn in the office lawn.

I am the only lady in this shift:

a gloomy spirit wandering in the dark.

The limited menu in the cafeteria is an

example of my subjugation.

I call my husband while enduring the

salty egg curry with chapatis.

His number is busy as usual –

loud empty rings fill my ears.

I decided to move to this strange city

for my work.

He easily disregards me now.

My mother worries that love can’t be

arranged like marriage.

Bonds don’t grow like her money plants.

I dip the chamomile tea bag in the

hot water from the vending machine.

The warmth of the cup and the taste

don’t have its promising effect.

Who keeps promises anymore?

An hour later there is still no text or call.

I am getting used to it.

Just wish I could fix my life

like debugging the computer codes.

I wait to board the night cab.

That will give me a safe ride to the place

I now call home.

It had rained in the evening and

the sky is clear.

Wish a star would fall onto my palm.

To let me know that it all worked out

a decade later as I learnt to let go.


How will you remember me?

And will you remember me?

Not that I care much, as it will be

probably too late for me.

Maybe the wind will bring you a

certain whiff of my lost smile.

My scribbled notes in the books

of the library, may speak of me.

Hope the library will be remodelled

but not demolished

because of digitisation.

I am not very fond of dogs

but I gave shelter to one

deserted by its previous owner.

Maybe it will give a hint of me with

its sad eyes and an awful snarl.

My book if still not out of print

may add a few glimpses to

my irrecoverable personality.

The craggy lines of my sketches

will give a spiel about my inhibitions.

The walls of my house that maybe

mouldered, won’t hesitate to triumph

about shielding me from my dreams.

There is a teak tree in my orchard.

If still not chopped will have the names

I had so wistfully carved on its bark.

Hope there will be something left of

me when I am gone.

Not that I care much, after all,

a lot will be forgotten from my time.


Mitra Samal mostly writes poems and short stories. She is a software consultant with a passion for both technology and literature. Her poems and stories have previously appeared in several literary magazines and portals.

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