Delivering

By Srinjoy Dey

 

It comes to me on a day like this
when I am awakened by thunderstorms
at dawn.

 

Below my dreaming pillow, ghosts have
left an envelope; plain white paper with
no signatories, no names. Yet I know it is
to me they have written - I know this
because the rain has brought a flower
to my balcony, its unfamiliar yellow
petals have streaks of orange lines.

 

how nature knows its postage stamps,
how it knows the art of delivering.

 

Shadow People

Write them in the image of your lovers
their hands wandering in darkness,
holding on to what they touch first

 

They reach out to you sometimes,
sometimes they reach out to themselves

 

They reach out to the shadow of the tree
to feel its shade, immortality

 

They reach out to what you reach out to –
rough hair and eyeliners,
the universe in its loneliness,
broken bottles, knives,

 

placards on the airport that might say

 

I’m here, waiting

 

Stuck between facts and fiction, when Srinjoy is not editing copies at The Hindu, he is buried knee-deep in the pile of books he wishes to read. Srinjoy from India also curates a fortnightly global arts newsletter - SubText. An admirer of all things eclectic, he loves to discover, unearth, and absorb artifacts buried in the depths of the Internet. His works have been published in The Bengaluru Reveiw, Miracle Magazine, The Alipore Post, and Kitaab International’s poetry anthology - 'A Map Called Home'. He is currently based in Chennai.