Two Poems by Bimal Guha

History

Time is running out fast.
In the distant bamboo-grove 
An evening-owl hoots.
A patch of dark clouds 
cautiously advances. 
It seems that they are all ready 
to swallow this earth 
any moment now.
I look at my fingers and 
see black splotches there. 
One-third of our earth is filled with 
water. Will all that water 
be enough to wipe out 
our disgrace?
The Himalayan mountains 
break out in laughter, 
the sunlight appears dull and pale.

Time is running out fast.
Standing alone on the street 
I watch a flock of wild ducks 
flying away in the distance, 
I watch them as long as I can.
Will they take the same route 
when they return? Will they give us 
the warmth of their white feathers 
as they flutter their wings 
behind those gathering clouds? 

How many ages have gone by 
as I stood at the corner 
of the main street.

A number of poets also 
used to gather there. 
Some had walked away 
without a single backward glance, 
some had taken a different path, 
some looked for a different route.
Those of you who are new, 
lift your eyes and 
look at them who are 
sitting in a circle. 

Remember them, they are 
our poets. They are the persons 
who write the history 
of the Bangalees 
on the bosom of the sky.

Flies

On waking up from my sleep
I saw some large fat flies 
lying on my reading table.

The buzzing sound of memories 
Continuously moved away 
further and further. 
I saw on my table 
my penholder, the case 
of my glasses, unused 
sheets of paper and my pen. 
All on a sudden 
a shaft of sunlight 
landed on my old reading desk 
while large fat flies
went on flying making 
a buzzing sound that badly hurt my ears.
And greedy flies of memory 
sought the remembrance 
of an ancient memory 
in the pages of my diary.

On waking up from my sleep 
I saw some large fat flies 
lying on my reading table.
The morning sun was busy 
picking out the dust of weariness 
from their inert wings.