My Chained Faith

The far-flung whistle of the colliery
and of the Calcutta-mail
calls me every day after dinner.

The train’s shrill echo and
rhythmic melody of wheels
form a sublime image of
the girl out of my dreams,
waving and smiling,
screaming and crying,
standing and waiting
just for me amidst grasses,
trees and hedges that wave
in solitude and hope.

The curvature of the lopsided land
plays hide and seek along with
the clouds and moon blurring realism.

My belief is incurable and so is
the facade of pleasure that I show
while I follow compellingly
the whistle of the colliery.

My faith lies in the train,
in the wilderness and
the vaporous figure of my love
while my whims are chained
with famine and society
that may identify me as mad
once I leave my job and run
into the hazy backwoods.



Blue above, blue beneath; waters and skies kiss at yonder point.

A thick line stretches with flags of greenery, bold enough
to sustain salty tides, as muddy lands, bronze in sunrays
swathe itself with the poignant carpet of the Ganges.

Boatman swings as if wind itself in the unheard stretches.
Vista lucid enough but not to overcome eyes in the clay.
Death lies behind the muck and life too; they choose to struggle.

Nights alert through sounds; river breezes rumour in our ears —
“Look the ‘Royal’ sees you from behind, from beside, in front…”
Fake cries of people tilts the launch as feet gather on a side
just to beat hope against the blinding trees and bushes.
We hover in coop while roars roam around us in the chill
captivating mist dangle themselves over salty fluids,
blurring reality in the splendour that seduces us with drunken eyes.

Word-masters may faint penning it from tip to tail for
Where is the tip and where is the tail?
Scintillating silence —
Winded by the recurrent chirping and seldom fox cries;
and the wish to see the king, bothering every moment
makes the guards utter, “If seen within the cage it’s royal,
For those who dare to sense it and hear it’s gasp, it’s lethal.”

Verses bow, prose too, ideas too vast for them.
Logs of wood keeps us
alive till they rot,
afloat in them till they float,

Nature’s dearest are the ‘Royals’ here. Her lap just for them.
Eyes become weary, swollen without sleep, still open with hope
while the king dozes and watches us every jiffy through royal eyes.
He must be smiling seeing the hunters enslaved within inebriated waters.

A serene approval haunts the heart as we depart,
kicks the pendulum faster to say,
Come here and float but beware of seduction.


Two Worlds

A blue lake captures my soul in its
unmeasured, unimaginable depths
where a new world better than lands
survive drinking immortality.

Howling wolves pierce melancholy
and the dropping leaves stuck with
fever of spring bow down
before the majestic stance
of endless sky and waters.

Echo of unknown sounds emerging
from the interstices of the woods
run wildly, circle around ears
like unquenched souls.
Striking against trunks topless trees
they become one with lingering serenity.

The bridge connecting them to my land
is left broken for years,
perhaps broken by the Gods
and none has dared to swim across
for both worlds gets bewildered
with the laws in either side of the bridge.


April and my Plastic Sunflowers

The four plastic sunflowers in my bedroom —
The way they swayed in the ceiling fan’s air
Were the functional-year-long-April for me?

Fallen twigs of meditating winter
And the deadwood sanity of their roughness;
The begging deserts of the patient summer
And the coarseness of their ravaged mirages;
The thin tune of the nostalgic autumn
And the restlessness of their alcoholic breezes —
Were never like fresh seasonal fruits to me
For I had the functional-year-long-April in my bedroom:
Those four plastic sunflowers.

Not long, my wedding and divorce —
Both in their infancy
Ended the perpetual April in my room
By demanding those yellow sunflowers
In the package of reparation.

It was four seasons ago and the spring of April
Now seems to be a creepy plastic serpent
Irresistibly insidious in its illusory cruelty
as my new girl friend from the same city
Talked of bringing new plastic flowers in my room.


Sonnet Mondal

Sonnet Mondal

Sonnet Mondal is the founder of The Enchanting Verses Literary Review. He has authored eight books of poetry and has performed on invitation at Struga Poetry Evenings, Macedonia in 2014 and Uskudar International Poetry Festival, Istanbul in 2015. Sonnet is currently one of the featured writers at International Writing Program at The University of IOWA-Silk Routes Project funded by Bureau of South and Central Asian Affairs at the U.S. Department of State. He has been invited at the XII International Poetry Festival of Granada in February 2016. His works have appeared in the Mcneese Review, Sheepshead Review, Two Thirds North, Penguin Review, Burning Word literary Journal, The Adroit Journal, California State Poetry Quarterly, Connotation Press, and Nth Position.