Poems by ​Smita Agarwal 

Endeavour
That impossible love
dwells in miraculous space
Where, the cliff – mad
with isolation and grief –
Embraces, in a death-grip,
The void;
Where the raging sea
Rushes to kiss the horizon –
Cold and detached;
Where, land – flattened,
Trod upon, weighed down –
Nevertheless, lifts itself to lie
With the sky, one last time …
 
We must go on
Towards this fabulous place
Talked about by Shams and Rumi;
This northern star
Which, maybe, does not exist …
 
There will be times
When the feet, bruised and torn,
Will give up.
The hands will turn limp,
Our parched lips will crack
And ooze,
 The eye will spot vultures circling,
 and quietly accept defeat.
 
The body will gradually become insentient …
In that interregnum
 Between awareness and coma
Will come the last upsurge
of desire …
And, you will rise, ever so lightly,
On the wings of endeavour
And find yourself,
Intrepid traveller,
Just once,  
Again …
 
                                                From: Mofussil Notebook, 2014.
 
 
 
                                    The Grass Widow’s Prayer
 
                                    Tall hill speckled with pine;
                                    The air scented. Again I
                                    Undertake the annual ascent up
                                    the spiralling way to your temple.
                                    It is Navaratra. The goddess is
                                    A decked out bride. I go to
                                    Offer her a red scarf trimmed
                                    With gold lace. Just-married girls spill
                                    Out of taxis and buses. They’re on
                                    Their first visit  to Surkhanda
                                    With their spouses. The lucky ones
                                    Shall meet their kin and shop
                                    At the fair. Meanwhile, I shall wind
                                    A red and gold thread round the peepul;
                                    Tie tiny brass bells to its outstretched
                                    Arms; bells that shall peal out my
                                    Prayers to the unseen gods that look
                                    Askance at my bare wrists, my forehead clear
                                    Of the sacramental dot, the parting in my hair
                                    A quiet, empty street. Devi-Ma, I come
                                    To deepen your red with my
                                    Absence of colour. Keep him safe;
                                    He who is alone at his outpost
                                    Battling shadows and sounds.
                                    May he win the war he set out for.
                                                            From: Wish-granting Words, 2002

About the poet

Smita Agarwal is a poet-critic with two collections of poetry, the most recent one being Mofussil Notebook, 2014. Her critical articles have been published in magazines and journals both in India and abroad, her most recent work being Marginalized: Indian Poetry in English, ed. Smita Agarwal, Rodopi/Brill, 2014. Her day job is Professor of English, University of Allahabad and she is a professional singer with her music available on http://www.beatofindia.com and You Tube.