SHARMILA PUPU MITRA

SHARMILA PUPUMITRA

Nothing Left To Lose

My unnamed sisters who

Are compelled to woo

Buyers of their ravaged flesh,

Live in a prison confined

Within a rough wire mesh,

Like hyperactive hares

That want to escape

And get bloodied

In their foolhardy attempts.

They live in Red Light areas,

They walk the streets,

In short skirts and

Revealing blouses

Showing their assets.

They strike a pose,

Sensuous to a fault.

Their smiles are frozen

On their pale mascara

And cheap red gash of

Their vacuous mouths.

Rain or shine,

They walk the streets.

On freezing nights,

When homely lights

Are extinguished,

They wait in

Dark doorways

Lurk in deserted parks.

They wait for

A few quick bucks

To feed their babies.

There are pimps, the heavies,

Who never let them be.

They are not entitled

To the usual privacy

That we demand as a right!

Oh, what a heartbreaking sight

These young and old women--

Some little more than children--

Who want out, but

Are caught in a painful rictus

Of a meaningless life that is

Worse than death.

Once I overheard one:

"They picked us

For an hour of fun;

And they pulled a gun!"

The same one was gone.

She was never found again.

Thousands of them,

Of ill repute, none wearing Jimmy Choos,

Keep walking till they drop;

Or if chosen, they do have to hop

For performing unspeakable acts.

These are the bare facts.

For a miserable pair of shoes,

They put themselves up for display:

They have no notion of fair play.

Horrors of nights pile up--who rues?

These loose women have

Nothing, really nothing, left to lose.

Moonstruck

This life is an abandoned house.

When the foundation was laid,

There was no particular joy in it.

The logs of wood and the bricks

Were used for building a makeshift

dwelling with a slate roof to stop rain.

In the ensuing years, some hours,

Long hours, passed in happiness.

Some hours passed at a pensive pace;

As usual all over the primeval world.

Years have gone, blended into the past.

Shot with light rays and shadows, dappled,

flaring up often, meant to last

A lifetime of dreams and unreal cast.

The house is now bereft of throbbing life.

In each room and on the stairs silence is rife.

Crumpled curtains cover some windows;

Some stare darkly into the trees opposite.

The chimney no longer smokes, and

The wooden door has developed a creak.

This house stands alone, abandoned,

Near a slow flowing creek.

In the night, when there is the full moon

Casting its yellow glow over the woods,

The house smiles a bleak smile, in one of its blue moods.

A moonstruck house, all alone

Under the night sky, not yet dead and gone,

Has poetry in every nook and room.

Step in gingerly--floor boards creak,

If you step on them too hard and in haste.

Tigress--Bride Of The Forest

Bride of the forest;

Amber eyes a little lazy

With her overwhelming

Lust for love and life;

Ears alert though,

For the dreadful

Steps of human hunters;

Her newly awakened

Fascination

With the trees

The clumps of grass

The pools of clear water

The sun-drenched soil

Makes her head buzz

With high pleasure;

The young tigress

Reclines in a recess

In the forest,

Inviting the druids

To embrace her with love.

The lithe, bronze body

Striped in gorgeous black,

Is offered to the forest

With a promise of faithfulness.

The tigress burning bright

As a new flame of the forest.

Lucid!

A man, hidden for long, was born in my brain.

It was dusk, and there was a slow train

Of thoughts, steaming, chugging away in there.

There were tiny electrons in the neurons,

That sparked by, tiny but illuminated stations.

The unnamed train swayed and rocked;

I was almost lulled, as sleep gently knocked

At my eyelids that were growing heavy.

...And then, my brain had a small explosion.

A bright headlight seemed to be turned on.

My cranium opened wide at the top;

Sparrows, pigeons and ravens flew out

Of the lighted cavern inside my head.

Then, all on a sudden, something burst:

Amniotic fluid, in phosphorescent waves.

A man floating in it flew up in the sky;

His wet wings he flapped madly, to fly.

My thought train came to halt at last.

An old tragedy flashed from the past.

The man was born, and was gone;

And my interiors became much LUCID, just

As my head closed up and I made it fast.

Waking The Soul

It is like raindrops--peace that drops from

The sky where a lovely dawn breaks!

The East blushes reddish orange--

Colours of the day awakening

And diffusing all over, hiding the

Stars of the glamorous night gathering.

The crescent moon hangs like a last

Piece of decoration from the feast

Of yesterday's celestial banquet--

A fading smile from the face of the sky,

Beautiful and elusive, a reminder of

The coming dusk that will brush away

The noisy, pragmatic, over-bright day.

The faded stars and the fading moon

Hold the promise that soothing night

Is just lurking around the corner, not far.

On the silhouette of the mauve hilltop

Stands alone a tree, its olive green foliage

Against the slow-brightening sky lifting

The night curtain, setting another day scene.

The solitary figure beside the tree on the hill

Looks calm and quiet,

perhaps looking for a few moments

of being alone with his own soul

seeking solace at dawn!

Landscape Of My Mind

The sun breaks through

A bank of dense dark clouds

In a surreal landscape.

Some parts of the sun

Melt and become a veneer

On little pools and the ice.

A boat, frozen into stillness,

Is sun-kissed, glowing orange.

This landscape makes me

Hold my breath in suspense.

The black clouds in my mind

Are swirling slowly about,

Reaching the deepest core.

The air in my mind is still,

Waiting for a break-through,

Or for an electric storm

Of apocalyptic magnitude.

The storm that will storm

My mind, devastate my shore,

Is brewing somewhere unknown.

SHARMILA PUPU MITRA

SHARMILA MITRA, aka Sharmila Pupu Mitra, is an English teacher who fills her solitary moments with creative writing, mostly poetry. She believes in honest struggle, and helping  destitute animals as much as possible. She lives with her elderly and ailing mother and seventeen rescued dogs and cats. She has to her credit a medal from Sampad South Asian Arts, UK, for an outstanding contribution to their publication: 'My Museum.' She has a collection of poems, Makeshift Melodies,' which she has self-published. She has of late started writing short stories. Her poems have been published in an anthology: 'Spilling Essences.' Life in its multiple colours emerges from her writing.