Pink Flame
My father stitched an evening with current ripples
spill over rocks and shadows gather at the corner,
Something sweet he whispered, repeated in present
tense, joy he folded with care and never used it.
He hung his favourite portrait on the front wall
It just hangs on, in its own modesty, in outrage.
With the lights turned low and candles flickering
he used to achieve a kind of black magic.
I saw him sharing his name with the mother earth
and sleepwalking across the circular terrace
in search of the pink flame, a soft geometry of richness,
as the night birds mounted the lonely street.
Plumages were kept on his diary pages, I saw him
released them feather by feather from the pages,
the storm wind lifted them to the dark sky,
someone will find out; someone know one day.
Gopal Lahiri is a pushcart nominee, bilingual poet, critic, editor, and translator with 31 books published, including eight solo/jointly edited books. His poetry and prose are published across more than one hundred journals and anthologies globally. www.gopallahiri.blogspot.com
www.amazon.in, Gopal Lahiri: Books