BONOLATA SEN

Years, miles, millennial—walking the world-way

Earth travelling, I,
From Ceylon sea to darkling Malay deep
Long traversed have I; To the grey worlds of Ashok, of Bimbisar
I had gone, and there tarried; and in Bidarbha too, farther, in the far distant dark
A tired life am I, and all-where life-sea seething, surround
She had given me a moment’s peace, Bonolata Sen, from Natore.

Her hair—black as the night black from the time-beyond-before at Bidisha

Her face—soft-sculpted Sravasti-such : as after the sea away-far
The sailor rudder-reft, way-lost, glimpses, ingazes, the grass-land green amidst cinnamon-isle
So, darkling, saw her I, and said she, ’Where have you been, so long?’
Raising her restful bird’s-nest eyes, Bonolata Sen, from Natore.

At day-fall, final, as dulcet dew-fall

Evening comes; the windhover wipes the sun-scent off its wings;
All the world’s hues all put out, the manuscript then prepares, to put forth
All aglow, a-hue, in glow-worm-gleam, so as to tell the tale:
All birds come home—the rivers, all—and the give-and-the-take, this-lifely, comes to an end, all in
all;
Darkness only dwells, and then, to be come
To Bonolata Sen.

Grass
The earth, this dawn, is lit by a soft green light
Like soft green lemon leaves;
Green grass like unripe melon—fragrant likewise—
The deer are tearing it apart, teethfullly!
I, too, feel like drinking, draining off, this green fragrance
Like green liqueur, glass after glass,
I roll along this grass body—rub eye on eye,
In the grass pinion my feather,
To be born as grass in grass come down from
The savoury dark of the body of a deep dense grass-mother.

Alas, Kestrel
Alas, kestrel, golden winged kestrel
Weep no more, this moist cloudy afternoon
Flying round and round this river, Dhansiri!
Your wept lilt reminds of her eye faded like cane-fruit
She is gone, gone with her beauty, afar,
Like the world’ss roseate princesses;
Why call her again? Who, alas, wants to rake up
The heart’s hidden grief?
Alas kestrel, golden winged kestrel,
Weep no more, flying round and round by
The river Dhansiri.

Sudarshana

Once with a wan smile I

To a woman like you
Had come
To be housed in the aeon’s hoary hoard
Standing sudden in a fire circle
Heard a divine voice in the deodar tree
Saw the immortal sun be.

Above all else sky galaxies grass floral night

Are good;
Still, time is not still;
Wanting an other deeper final form
It saw your sphere.

Like good old sunshine on this earth

Is your body; but then you did not give;
Time having given you all and become

A widower death-wed
You Sudarshana, the well regarded
Are dead.

Tangerine

Once I leave off this body

Shall I never come back to this earth, again?
May I be back, again
On a winter’s night, certain, any,
Bearing the mournful meat
Of a cold tangerine
Beside the sickbed of one
Familiar, fading, certain, any.

Oneirophones

Oneirophones pay call, say: stillness is best;

Lying in bed on a still winter night with the lamp left burning
Or put out
The eyes of stillness seem to cloud over with some other evening light.

That light for all time stays still;

One day having left all aside I too shall
Become still; that winter night, leaving off golden lacework
Having put out the lamp I shall stay put in bed;
Leaning against the dark I shall stay awake
Like a bat’s squiggly sky.

Stillness, when will you come, do tell.

A thousand years only make play

A thousand years only make play like glow-worms in the dark

All around always the night’s hold
Moonlight on the sand—shades of deodar strewn
Like crushed columns: from Dwarka;—stand around dead, dim.
Our bodies give off the odour of sleep—all of life’s dealings are done;
‘Remember me?’ she asked––I, only, ‘Bonolata Sen?’

Walking

Guided, as if, by a gesture, keeping some sign in mind, alone from street to city street
Much have I walked; Well seen that trams, buses, all run all very well;
Then leave the streets and go quietly away to their sleep:

All through the night the gaslight knowing its job well burns well.
None slips—bricks buildings signboards windows gates rooftops all
Feel they need to sleep quietly under the sky.
Walking on along , alone, I have felt their profound peace in my heart;
It was late into the night—a myriad of stars silent solitary had come to surround the top of the
tower, the monument minaret;—Did I ever see anything as simple, as possibly sound?

I wonder: Calcutta all starry-monumental?

Eyes look down—cigar quietly burns—much dust, straw in the air;
Eyes shut, I quietly draw aside—from the trees many worn brown leaves

Have blown away; even so alone through the night I had walked in Babylon
What for; even now, this day, after thousands on thousands of busy years, I know not what for.