Bhupender K Bhardwaj is a poet and IRTS officer. He works with the Ministry of Railways, Government of India. He has been composing poetry since the last few years. His influences are Derek Walcott and Seamus Heaney. His poems have been published by Mad Swirl, Kingston Creative Writers’ Blog, Indian Review and Random Poem Tree. Also, He was recently longlisted for The Toto Awards for Creative Writing 2016 in the Poetry category.
TO BRING BACK MEMORIES
To bring back memories of the dead
Is same as feeling tremendous guilt inside
On having reprimanded someone
For a thing they did not do.
Within the corridors of your mind
Recreating the deceased,
You fill the gap their death left
With all their actions – right and wrong.
The ancient Jewish cemetery that stands
In front of me is home to my brothers
Whom I never met.
The dead there evoke delicate feelings in me,
These feelings I realize
Have revealed their grandiosity
In the snow-white flowers that have
Bloomed on the overarching tree.
The invisible maroon-coloured vintage wine
Flowing from their dead bones,
Which paints the world in various shades
Has created the partition and is the
No-man’s-void between life and death.
THROUGH THE DENSE PASSAGES OF LOSS
Through the dense passages of loss,
We kept moving and moving
Believing a sunflower and honey bees hovering above it
Would greet us at the end of our travelling.
The days were suffused with illusive hopes all blending into painful years
That bore the indelible stamp of repetition,
When in fact our time on earth
Should have resembled a bright canvas painted with the essence of meanings.
We wrongly believed that our peace lay in what others were doing –
Acquiring symbols of materialism, engaging in queer talks, putting up a
Deliberate show of falsity.
Though we were situated in a hazy matrix of manufactured cosmos:
The joyous yelp of a dog,
The immortal taste of the sweet earth-colored tea and above all,
The hand of the lover in our hands
Helped us endure the toughest ordeal of surviving each passing minute.
THE SPARKLE OF THE BURNISHED METAL
The sparkle of the burnished metal, the stare of the greasy glass bulb, the grim look
Of the matchbox should not be avoided for they extend to us the wisdom of the
Ages through their silent language which must be deciphered by us.
The gurgling silver dancing down the fountain is a silence full of sounds;
Ungraspable, a nullity as when day dreaming you feel the contours of a
Metallic paper-punch which you loved in your childhood but the sudden
Ascent of a black ant up your foot signals to you your person. There remains
Thus, neither your childhood nor the paper-punch.
Which woman can face the horizon standing at level with it and that too eye to eye?
The woman who lives each Day which erupts like a red fire from the rusted stove
Of the night as if it was all; no vitality and decay preceding it and following it.
When you enter the heart of the spark flying from the knife touched across the rim
Of the wheel, when you hear the pulse of time like your own heartbeat you will see
Yourself face to face i.e. Nobody.