Wandering Soul in Search of the Final Destination

Where shall the travel be?
When time is right,
Revealed shall the answe be.

Arrived at what station?
An unfamiliar place,
After a long journey.

Familiarize with the unfamiliar;
In search of the infinite continuum,
This journey is just the infinitesimal dust particle on the road;

Was this the same path traversed before?
What an absurd question,
Will it address the search unknown?

The water molecule of the flowing river,
Does it return again to the same spot
once it merges in the bosom of the sea?

Does not the water molecule in the sea evaporate and
come back again as raindrop,
To the river’s bosom?

The evaporated particle of water as dew drop,
Dancing on the blade of grass,
Swept away to the river by rain;

Does that dew drop know
it traversed this same path before,
To merge into the bosom of the sea?

What is this new identity,
Know this is not permanent,
Why then is this attachment?

Move on, move on,
This wandering is eternal,
In death the address is not hidden;

Who knows when the search is answered,
Will the quest come to a culmination,
The travel of a wandering soul in search of the final destination?

**translated from a poem I wrote yesterday in my mother tongue Axomiya (Assamese).**

From Vault of Memories Past

I wrote this poem over a span of one month. As the poem is long , I shall post it in parts every Friday. It’s a poem about love but some may find the content semi-erotic. Lest their finer senses be disturbed, be aware and proceed at your own risk

Introduction

Thirty six years back, on a hot summer night I left my home and boarded a train to my alma mater in Varanasi, India on my way to a land and future unknown. With lots of dream in my eyes and a nearly empty pocket, with a passport and visa on hand, I left the comfort of a secure job for an uncertain future.

That I will write something, that too poetry, was furthest from my mind on that day. Fast forward thirty years, I was writing poems, had a blog going and before I knew it six years have passed. However I was restless. I just couldn’t sit still for hours on and keep on writing. So my poems were short, some really short. I was even afraid to attempt to write short stories. Then the pandemic happened and the world turned on its head. Who thought that people would be stuck in their homes for months with nowhere to go, basically grounded by a microscopic virus.

Through all the sufferings and loss, people coped with the situation in their own way. At the end of November of 2020, I sat down to attempt writing a long poem with a consistent theme. I kept at it for nearly four weeks, writing atleast a stanza every day. The result was a poem in six parts with fifty three stanzas and nearly five thousand five hundred words with a prologue and an epilogue.

Now came the hard part. I was sure that this long poem would need editing before being published. Editing was not my forte. So first I requested my daughter, who had a knack for writing, to read and edit the poem, but when I discussed with her the theme of the poem she refused. Maybe she felt that I lost my nuts. I then approached my eldest son to review and edit. After much hemming and hawing, he did few stanzas and then he stopped. There it languished for more than six months till I decided today to post it in parts, couple of stanzas every week on Fridays for next few weeks.

So, here it is. I start with the prologue and from next Friday will start with the first two stanzas of part I. Appreciate my readers constructive criticism.

Prologue

The voice was mellifluous;
The magic was still there;
Maybe age had softened it a little;
A little tired, little sad,
But the first “Hello, Love”,
Lit the fiery passion in my heart,
A fire that was kept well hidden,
Dormant for so long;
Blood rushed to my head,
I wanted to shout with joy,
Words rushing choked my throat,
Wanted to hug her hard,
And smother her with warm kisses,
But before I could say a word,
The voice from the past
Whispered in my ears,
Love of mine, keeper of my
Heart and soul,
Did you guard my youth well;
Because today I have come
To ask it back,
To recreate the magic of eons ago,
When on a meadow far away
As the sun set, and
Under a moonlit sky,
Inhibitions were shed,
Lust vanquished,
Passion calmed,
Love reigned,
I gave myself to you,
Carried you in me always,
A flower blossomed,
And we became one.
[December 17, 2020]

© Pranabendra Sarma 2021

My Soul Waits

I walk the lonely trail,
Sun beating down on my head,
Cool breeze caresses and
Dries the sweat trickling down my face,
There suddenly in the middle of the
Sun baked trail,
I find myself,
Bare naked in my clothes,
My soul revealed for a fleeting moment.

Alas, I forget Frost, and
Shun the path less traveled,
Eternity beckons, but
The well marked trails lead me home;
My soul waits for another day.

Why I Write

Many a times this question is asked why one writes. I was asked this question and I gave some answer or tried avoiding to answer. Couple of days back while I was having my morning coffee, the answer came to my mind as a poem that I jotted down. Is that the answer? Honestly, I don’t know. However, each and every word in the poem is true.

I forget the world
when I write,
I do not even know
what I write,
Only thing I know,
no, I feel,
there is a light
that shines,
and shows me the way,
the fingers move,
they are mine,
but they are not,
I do not have
any control,
I know not
the words that
come out,
Know not what
they mean,
I feel as if
my soul leaves me,
light and feathery,
it takes flight,
and when all is done,
I am back,
and I am me,
atleast what I
think is me,
there is such
an exhilaration
in writing,
I feel I die
and come back to
earth again.

Wasted

Somewhere between aspiration and expectation,

The river of life got dammed.

The stale water is pungent now,

Ripe to be fished by the powerful

To fulfill their ulterior motivation.

A bud that did not flower, never came to fruition,

Lost forever to humanity, a malodorous fragrance, putrid,

Wasted blood caked dry by the blazing sun.

As the hypocrites  responsible for the mayhem rejoice,

Shouting to the high heavens for the glory of the martyred,

Somewhere a lonely heart weeps for the wasted soul.

For a Heaven Peddled

For a God unseen
We sacrifice
Those who need ours
We leave them
To mercy of God
Indoctrained from childhood
We offer prayers
And fill the coffers
Of those
Whose business is
The soul of mortals
Who amongst us
Has seen afterlife
For a heaven peddled
We mortgage our present
And create hell
On earth
While the custodians
Of morality
Turn a blind eye
As the powerfuls
Bend the rules
They have sold
Their souls
And tangoed with
The devil
Offering balms
To our tortured souls
If politics makes
Strange bedfellows
Religion is not
Far behind

I have not changed

I have not changed
I learned to live
With a long list
Of unachieved goals
Ghost of accepting
The inevitable
Things that I can’t change
Does not faze me now
Hiding behind a mask
Of my own making
Tolerating unseen pain
Is no longer acceptable
I am free of the shadows
Lurking behind the veil
Not defeated
My soul is free
Garbage of the past
Unburdened
Forward to future
I have not changed

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