When it comes to choosing from more than one pain, tears emerge from secret places, the belief in oneself is eroded by the smallest differences. They all seem to come from the same place, carrying similar lonelinesses. The mind and heart suffer attacks of an elaborate grief that is beyond all choosing, all available rules of choice and exclusion. The tears … [Read more...]
Bibhu Padhi has published eight books of poems. His poems have appeared in distinguished magazines throughout the English-speaking countries, such as Indian Literature, The Illustrated Weekly of India, Quest, Contemporary, Encounter, The Poetry Review, Poetry Wales, The Rialto, Stand, New Letters, New Criterion, Poetry (Chicago), Prairie Schooner, Southwest Review, The Literary Review and TriQuarterly, the Antigonish Review and Queen’s Quarterly. His poems have been included in numerous anthologies, two of the most recent being 60 Indian Poets (Penguin) and The HarperCollins Book of English Poetry.
He has also written a book on D.H.Lawrence and co-written (with his wife, Minakshi Padhi) a reference book on Indian Philosophy and Religion.
What if you don’t care? Every leaf knows how I feel, every bird and bud, every human pathway in between hedge-rows. What if you don’t know, or rather wouldn’t, for reasons best known to you? I need not speak to you. Each small thing in your garden will speak for me. Every small thing has laid itself bare, my gardener! … [Read more...]
Now, almost morning. It is difficult to know how to steer through the day’s long cleverness. A vague pain from last night is everywhere even now-- over the earth, the sky, this body. Even last evening’s whiskey with friends, was too weak to bring in sleep. I asked my woman of Puri-on-Sea to sit with me through the night, listen to my … [Read more...]
… every love is a screen from sadness. - Salvatore Quasimodo Girl of the sea: I don’t understand why you should waste your body like common men and women. Stay where you were thirty-three years ago, you were inside the dark, well-guarded fort, your mother’s womb, its warm, night-security. Why don’t you go … [Read more...]
I was to transfer my hand-written words to a safer place, where they wouldn’t be lost to the magic of our ill-maintained shelves, neighbouring universes. I remember how about a minute ago I had spoken to you and you had warned me against presences that trouble us by their sheer, twisted look. “The devil is there with you, right now,” you said. I heard the … [Read more...]
Which wind is touching our skin so differently this evening? Which wind comes floating into the rooms, as if we were guessing an arrival, a stranger, another spring? As if from a place where fairy tales are born? Beliefs are far from here, though we are certainly in a new season, in a house of spring and incense. This may not be with us tomorrow, just … [Read more...]
Soon we shall hear about today drawing to our night, offering us a description of how, yesterday, we had found ourselves within the night before, at this time. We shall recall how, the day before yesterday, leaning over the shadows of things we loved some thirty years ago, one afternoon of a certain April summer, when no one saw us and we didn’t care for the … [Read more...]