Friday, February 19, 2016

Gopal Lahiri- Three Poems

Gopal Lahiri was born and grew up in Kolkata. He currently lives in Mumbai, India. He is a bilingual poet, writer, editor, critic and translator and widely published in Bengali and English language. Anthology appearances (among others) includes National Treasures, Indus Valley, A posy of poesy, Concerto, Poet’s paradise, My dazzling Bards, The Silence within, East Lit, Indo-Australian Anthology, The Dance of the Peacock, Illuminations. His works have featured in journals Indian Literature, Taj Mahal Review, CLRI, Haiku Journal and electronic publications Arts and Letters, Eastlit, Grey Sparrow Journal, Underground Window, Muse India, Poetry Stop, Debug, Coldnoon diaries He has had three poetry collections and also jointly edited the anthology Scaling Heights. He was awarded Poet of the Year, 2015 by Destiny Poets’ International Community of Poets, Wakefield, U.K..

The Small things

there’re times when we match our bloods
with the known humans,
insertion of pieces of DNA 
in our gnome for innate disease
gently flowing in the criss-cross veins
as if with swearing secrecy.

outside rolling vistas
of red and russets carpeting,
the spreading green,
detain in time,
once useful, now buried deep.

all about the lovely people, now dead
lips filled with lies and lies,
the rose painted dreams 
not ready to hide in
shadows and illness,.
slit our throat with ease and grace.


Is it the same face?
The evening light falls short of the curves
Where tears accumulate,
And recalls a steady swing of the
Tall curtain closing the window.

Not nice, perhaps not credible at all,
Like mapping a meandering river
Leaving an impression of shadow length.
We thought it could recognise
The solitary path, strewn with stones.

It’s a moment we cannot follow any more
Still trails by light years
The silent words we carry on our lips
Setting above our shoulders
Only to dissolve in the mist.


On a rare visit, to grow for someone
the curved moon cut across
my dream in blood stained silence.

There will be time to fill it
but right now, a world outside
coming through the open door.

Put their arms on my head
the exiles whisper heavy words,
showing pure white, the tail light.

The window in the shape of
a canvas fills with the rainbow tinge
on the soft wings of the wounded bird.

You can put it like that,
see what has gone horribly wrong
in the night dressed in qualms.


  1. Enjoyed these.Look forward to more poems from Gopal

  2. A flaming cauldron of images largely human in self-awareness of language's solitude.