IMG_2834Sreyash Sarkar, is a poet, a qualified painter, a practicing Hindustani Classical musician and an aspiring Electrical Engineer. Educated in Kolkata and Bangalore, he has been a student correspondent at The Statesman, Kolkata from his school, South Point. In 2012, in an international poetry competition organized in memoir of Yeats, his poem was shortlisted among 40 other poets from all over the world. His interview was published in the ‘The Arty Legume’, where he was asked to speak on cubism, existentialism in art and intrusion in a painting. He has been extensively featured in “The Gooseberry Bushes”,” Muses”, ” The Literary Jewels”, “Tagore for us”, ” The Country Cake-Stall” , ” The Orange Orchard” etc. Besides, being a freelance writer for several magazines, he is the editor-in-chief of Kalomer Kalomishak, a bilingual magazine, which he founded in 2013.

The Optical Symphony

I heard the light in all its jubilance:
The tunes, like recuerdos of a passing feast,
The notes, that lingered in the stairs
Encrusted in uncouth undulation,
Lay words deceived and afflicted.

Rhapsodical moments crossed woods
Left their ethereal motion
Under shadowed trees,
Bitten words afloat in the air
Disappeared in the land of magpies;
And cotton trees made their roots
Through untrodden paths.

My audibility looked upon in solitude-
An illuminated world waited in distress
An extracted existence amidst grandiosity.
An incised tongue, I shall affix
Under the stairs,
Away from the sun,
To arouse extinct desires
To arouse forgotten words
To arouse a deluge….

With fingers on the flute,
The cowherd shall play on,
And I shall see how…
Avian words can etherize trees….

The Cage

It was the day that
The bird flew away to a horizon
Unknown, beyond reach
Incapable of childish marriages and fluid births,
Setting out a cry, distinct in its screech, the retaining tone
It scratched the earth, until colorless blood oozed out of it
Drop, by drop, and then a flood….

I did not remember anything
I was still taking the fragrance of the smothered rice bowl
Empty of its contents
And stripped of its identity
But I did ask, and further asked myself in the dark,
About the shiver down my spine

The shiver had turned into a
Something was being churned in the granary
A small grain, a jinx
Wafted about in the sick air

I did not remember anything
I was still taking the fragrance
Of the smothered rice, bowl
Empty of its contents
Stripped of its identity

Something was being cooked
Inside me
Persistently in frivolous extents
That ensnared my instincts
Cooked and cooked
Till scarlet,
Fresh from my blood.


The Macramé of Carnal Waves

”Love is a shadow.
How you lie and cry after it.
Listen: these are its hooves: it has gone off, like a horse.”
– Sylvia Plath

Below the highway darkness turns the heath
To ancient shapes, to where the wind trots on hooves,
The mist a cloak swirling, or further back
To that with eyes and claws and scales and beak.
She grips the wheel, following dotted lines:
No traffic and yet she keeps to the lane.
A tick could throw her lighted world out of gear,
The earth erupts into all that has been there.

As burnt stars fill the night,
I remember her like imprints of a swan’s feet left on sand
Drenched in lunar ecstasy,
That she rushed in like July ebbs,
And returned with receding flows
While by the river side rests a shattered boat,
Its worn-out sails
Awaits a dreamer’s touch, like the gush of torrential winds with impending motion to transcend the silence of oars…
I anticipate, alone, grasping her morose clay
As the norms go before cremating- so dark and detached.
While the bond between living fingers and deceased dull eyes
Dream of galloping across meadows-

March days return with their covert light, and huge fishes swim through the sky, vague earthly vapors progress in secret, things slip to silence one by one.
Through fortuity, at this crisis of errant skies,
She reunites the lives of the sea to that of fire,grey lurching of the ship of winter, to the form that love carved in the guitar.
As seen in fantasy and observed in facts
We evolve to humanity from mere human beings.
As I dispose all of her that remained
And witness how waves wash away burnt stars
And how the neon beacons on masked sails, distressed…


“Our indiscretions sometimes serve us well, when our dear plots do pall…”- Hamlet, 5.2.7, Shakespeare.

‘The dawn has descended upon us’, said the Elder ,
Let us hurry, or be hunted
Let us conjecture, or be battered
Let us herald, or be outwitted
The little girl, inebriated in the beauty of the words,
Is lost in an ineluctable void
Not a dream, not a nightmare..
The panoply of the setting sun
A Subliminal enticement
An Enervate mind
The poke, the stirring
The unavoidable voice from within..

The lost one is lost again
The discovered one is extinct
The unfathomable is ethereal
Out came the menorah
Of realization
Not a dream, not a nightmare..

The harlot smiled;
The moonstruck man laughed
The ineligible bride rejoiced
And the enlightened, jocund
Not a dream, not a nightmare..

The girl stood.
A jiffy, jeopardized with happiness..
Blossomed and faded
Blossomed and faded
Enshrined and faded
Captured and faded
Faded and faded…
Blasé. Blemished.
Not a dream, not a nightmare…