Sonnet Mondal has authored seven books of poetry and was bestowed Poet Laureate from Bombadil Publishing, Sweden in 2009. He was inducted in the prestigious Significant Achievements Plaque at the museum of Bengal Engineering and Science University, Shibpur in 2011 and was featured as one of the Famous Five of Bengali youths by India Today magazine in 2010. At present he is the managing editor of The Enchanting Verses Literary Review. Details of his work can be found at www.sonnetmondal.com
Sweat tries to swim upwards through the hairs
of a labourer building the statue of the herald,
but fails and falls in the soil, sucked up by heat,
vanishes as a struggling animal in quicksand;
dreams drain and entity turns into fossils as slippers
walk over it.
His weapons are a chisel and spade;
he lifts them to protest, but the vacuum wailing in the curves
of his muscles make them fall again on the mummified ground;
just to dig, dig the ground, for
the Herald’s statue must stand firm
or his existence will be buried under its
Toils will evaporate with the smile of the moon.
The dawn will hear sounds again—
sounds of iron striking against rocks.
The air waits to weave those sounds
and strike a twister with them—
tall enough for the world to see,
bold enough to step over mountains,
clear enough to show the waving hands
begging a day out of slavery.
A call for the ‘night’ amidst the stormy evening
evokes the thoughts of the day when I ravaged
a family and picked up their son out of a typical
kindness; it has haunted me for years till now.
He and my blood have grown up as brothers;
their feet and mind move alike against odds;
just my blood clots with the pinch from the
revolver that shot down the dears of who is
my child now; perhaps his wisdom was too sparse then
to perceive the care of near and dear ones.
His eyes still shine as if complaining something
to the walls, streets, and stones all around
who never speak of his real family.
Some still creatures and dumb mouths
sound clearer with their silence, with
the way their pretence pop up as oil upon water.
Perhaps by the time I’m in the bed of my confession,
he will learn forgiveness from some sage;
he will smile at the futility of deaths and births,
and I will leave my bed with a flower, never
to be born again, for it might be another
wait of sixty years, hoping for resurrection.