When I am old (I mean older) I will
Not accept what the young will let me have:
My booming laugh will scare my pretensions
Of wisdom away. I’ll be fun, talk light
And smile at will; when working men pass by,
All brown and stretched by the long working hours
I’ll talk of lazy summer noons and soft
Evenings; I will wash away my kindness.
I’ll spend my fortunes (if someday I’m rich)
On flippant things: maybe I’ll learn to fly,
Or spend my weekends seeking sunken gold
In Bahamas all alone; I will try
New things: I’ll wear red when I please and paint
My house the deepest purple shade; I’ll eat
What I desire, drink rum on afternoons,
And pretend to chase all the prettiest girls.
When I am old (I mean older) I will
Grow eccentric. But still on winter nights
When I’m alone (which will be every night)
I’ll write (till weary eyes permit) the poems
I write to you: that will not change with age.
Like an old fruit, wrinkled and ripe, I’ll slide
Into blank nothingness carrying just your thoughts:
I’ll persist, still unfulfilled, still yearning.
Diptesh Ghosh
And so it comes to this: the end of days,
The sum of starlit nights and rain-washed years
I spent with friends who lie stone dead in fields
Of Troy. My faithful Andromache waits
With Astyanax, my son: I wish my stay
Would last one summer more; to see him grow,
To lie with her in balmy autumn nights,
And rest in fields where Golden barley grows.
But Achilles waits: no war is ever just,
And he is young, a boy who seeks his fame,
He does not understand my love for life.
The gods have foretold this: but I will not
Take shelter behind walls. I see old death;
He waits for me. What can a mortal do
When gods take sides, and all our years are bound
In dice that fates have rolled; and now death waits.
As long as mankind exists, Achilles wants
His name to last, but I just want to live
In peace, to tend my goats and watch the sun
In lands where neither men nor gods seek blood;
But Achilles waits: and death is waiting too.
And all my yesteryears have led to this:
This field, this god-infested ground, and I
Wait sword in hand for death: I am ready.
Diptesh Ghosh
Something in dusty corners of my heart
Seems to have lost its sting: the broken dreams
That haunted me so long, all sorrows old,
Those regrets have disappeared. Once again
My life is filled with promises of things:
I hear the footsteps of joys yet to come.
The world is still the same, I know; the flaws
Still run in me. But I cannot shake off
This happiness that clings to me so long
Like your lavender smell. It’s raining now
And you are coming here: a brand new poem
Is walking towards my long-waiting heart.
Diptesh Ghosh
Old names, old friends, old loves,
Are now slowly fading away,
Like the places we have been to,
Homes that we have lived in:
They exist like names on the map,
Or like faces in old albums.
A mist has fallen over them
We have forgotten the way there.
We remember them with fondness
But we cannot go back ever
Except in half-remembered dreams,
In storm tossed lonely winter nights.
Diptesh Ghosh
The little metal box it.hides in plain site behind the velvet painting of a Zulu warrior slightly off center a bit to the right.
The warrior. Hmmm.No The vault.
A naked dwarf. He struggles quietly at midnight to gather and drag my blocks of raw marble across crystaline floors to the vaault then
He stands there for hours before clcking the numbers.Clack goes the handle. Success.
The hinges have rusted since last deposit. He looks furtively over his shoulder as the metalic groan turns to a squeek. Abra cadabra.
Time to do work. Stealthy old fella he whistles while he works.
One block,two, three and so.
He forces the stones through a the four square door.
Rubs his hands together. Wipes the drivle from his chin
Then walks out the door backwards. The one he came in.
My vault is reloaded with pleasure and pain.
So I can write poetry again and again.
A gentle breeze of warmth pushes pleasant,
freakishly normal, but a smack on the water
builds waves that grow older and stronger.
You feel it all soft behind your eyes.
But there is always something missing
that on more cigarette can't fix.
There is always one bird flying
who just can't find the right sticks
to stand on, to launch from, to rise and
fight the world, so he glided circles
as Lady Hurricane approached.
He flew tired, then he flew more.
I opened the door to our house in Connecticut
in the red mist after Sandy and looked up, and
watched him ramble. "The Hawk in the Hurricane."
There he was circling, as if to prove his strength.
And when those boys and girls were murdered in Newtown,
just down the road,
I thought of him
like he was a good thing.
Brave enough stand and be a bad omen.
A crucifix with wings.
Innocent boys and girls are gone now.
Turned into a show we watch on TV.
But that is natural to life in this century,
so there's policy and argument
and my eyes turn back
to my own
endless circle
with an end.
Happiness makes a subtle appearance as just a humble breath,
a deli sandwich, as sun that peaks around the old windows.
And sees me,
invites a squint,
rises,
sets,
and then comes back.
Watching the curtains flutter was relaxing,
the window was open wide letting in a breeze,
it was evening but the air was warm,
and there was a strong smell in the air,
a summer smell,
it was one of those intense nostalgic kind of smells,
that flare up emotions with old memories,
and people in the gardens were laughing and drinking.
We were lying down on a mattress on the floor in your dad’s room,
both naked,
my pale white skin touching against your beautiful Arabic skin,
the colour of coffee.
A perfect mixture, sweet coffee and milk,
surely we were made for each other?
And you had your tiny arm wrapped around my waist,
your soft hand holding my chest,
and on my back I could feel your small breasts,
and your lips breathing hot breath down my neck
I was almost asleep.
Fights
They throw words like little hand grenades
because in our house, we cannot use fists
(I feel that those would hurt less)
and he,
small boy full of rage and sound and not much else
with fists balled to tight
each wanting to strike out, to break his sister's stupid face
Searching through the catacombs of his mind he thought only of falling through a war chest
searching for some sharpened bone or anything to use
he was a skilled warrior of the shadows
with one jab he could thrust thorns through her guarded heart
the precision of a sibling sniper on his side
he had wounded her before
he almost always won
but his wretched
sister
refused to lose this time
refused to be out manipulated
She too had been training
sharpening a silver tongue
that usually served as a shield to her brother's barbs and wicked advances
but today it was a dagger
and assassin for the old king
"You never loved me," he lunged with a flourish
She parried with a cuss word and a sigh
he danced aside, and jabbed at her flank
"I'm going to jump off the cliff" he declared
she scowled
this move usually did her in, but with one glare, she kicked the sword from his hand, and rounded upon him
no fencing foil was on her, no seemly battle ax
but a dagger
and she drew in close
the killing blow
"You are only my half brother" she whispered
and he
was vanquished
The battle done, the two sunk to their knees
and sobbed
Fights
They throw words like little hand grenades
because in our house, we cannot use fists
(I feel that those would hurt less)
I often write about you
Creating an imaginary scene for us both
I know,call me sentimental
Or emotional,either really
But isn't this what they call dreaming?
Building clouds of invisible nines
Where you kiss me
And say "You know,I think I really like you."
Or the days we might grow old together
Sit by the porch
Listen to the music
You swore you would play for me
(I want to hold your hand)
I can already see
The letters you've written to me
Telling me of all the adventures
You want to go with me
Exploring every part of New York
Because that's the place we both love
And as I walked down the aisle
I know that every sadness I've ever felt about us
Would just drift off
As we say "I do."
Perhaps our first kiss
Would not be like the movies
We would be awkward
And laugh at ourselves
For thinking too much
Sometimes I would get paranoid
And try to keep you tighter by my side
But understand that
I only do that because I truly love you
The worst that could happen
In this dream
Is that we break up
And our hands touch for the last time
A goodbye peck on the cheek
"Stay friends okay?"
And we go in different directions
Becoming strangers again
Uncle Bruce writes sermons and gives grace at the Christmas table
his family bowed their heads
and listened to what they thought of as
"quaint"
"old time-y"
Most of them there were atheists
or maybe Catholics
(it depended on the side of the table)
and even Uncle Bruce was not sure what he believed in, not yet, not yet
after 53 years, he wasn't sure
(he had always been a smart man)
even after debating how many angels could dance on the head of a pin
and preaching for years behind the pulpit
What Uncle Bruce does know, he does
He gives us all faith
