Sunday Poem By Nandita Samanta


What has passed the test of time
the Mayan predictions
grandpa’s glassine visions,
grandma’s stale, betel-nut breath folklores,
her proverbs for all situations?

Time and tide wait for none- she said often.
For me, time slowed down after my father was gone.
Had anyone told departures conjure events?

At noon, at the latticed window
a dying leaf shape and reshape a shadow,
at eventides the spilling splash of the pot- full of ash
in the Ganges at Nimtala ghat resounds.
The conch shell and bells from the nearby temple draws attention.

I wish I could pray, but, how do I fold my hands
I hold the hollow helix of grief, a lost orb, and a picture of inception in two hands.
I hold my mother’s hand, in her eyes, I see father’s uncaught dreams.

Some events are never over between the synapses,
they seem to have barely begun-
A breadth from somewhere stirs up the wind chimes.

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