Confession / Poem by Swapna Behera

Poem by Swapna Behera



Here is the confession
Of the crystalline tears
Two beads on the cheeks
Once so transparent but now dusky and hazy
From the cataract eyes of a war widow
Her stretched skin
Bulging red eyes;
Arched spine
Fixed on the visible tombstone
Of her beloved, a soldier
Whose body returned with a wrapped flag
Now she is splattered
Like her bangles and vermillion
Burning like a solitary pyre
How ruthlessly she is stuck
In that monsoon
Waits for every knock of the door
Talking to herself
The planning that they will execute
In the next four years
A rooftop room to romance
with the dazzling stars
A tractor to till extra piece of land
She a marble statue now
Once resonating with joy
in the Baisakhi
She met her lover ;
A stalwart brave tall man
They danced with the rhythm of Nagara
sang the songs of the streams
passion, music and lucent fountain
prayers answered;
the introspections sprout
as she weaves her chunri
all those colours blurred now
Only the sperm of her beloved
inside her womb
and a heap of memory
May be the child will arrange the palette
Glorify the sequences in ascending order
The tears confess today….
Life lives in memories
The tiny dot of time
Rises like the Sun of the dawn
She smiles…
Every loss is a gain..
May be for a nation if not for her…..



This is a confession
That I am keeping on note
I am a bullet
That hit the chest
Of the tall soldier
Alas! I cry today
I feel the sorrow of the war widow
The bleeding of her eyes
Oh! No, She was vibrant
A bubbling flower of the valley
The melody of peace and love
In the green fields
Their clapping echoes
Here I confess my sin
I am a bullet ,a killer
Lord! Please never forgive me
Let me be the last bullet
No more, no more
Enough is enough
Every gain is a loss…..
For someone or the other
Here or there
In this village or in that city
A single bullet is the blood map
Of the globe
Visible or invisible…..
Here or there…..



Here I keep my confession
On the carpet of the grass
I am the posthumously born boy
Never seen my papa
Who was shot on the war field
I have saved all my demands
Stored in my rib cage
If at all once you can return papa
I will go round the village
Hopping and hopping
To show them with pride
Never I will listen to the whispers
“Poor boy !He has never seen his father!’’
Like an arrow it pierces my heart into segments
I will scream
Lo! Behold my father is alive
In silent nights
I feel your warm kiss on my forehead
I imagine ,I presume
You buying me the red bicycle
Playing badminton on the courtyard
Racing the cycle with you
on the twisted village road
You may be invisible
But your existence is here or there
May be with the birthday cake
May be in the smell of the hair of mama
May be you reflect in her tears
May be when we eat the mangoes
Celebrate Diwali or Holi
May be in silent nights
when we both cry hiding each other
Yes papa , mama is brave
Perhaps she is
braver than you.
But yes ,we do miss
those golden moments of life
Every loss is a loss
And every gain is a gain papa
For me only for me….
I miss you a lot…..
Yes I miss you….



Here is the confession of a cemetery
Don’t ever bring those young bodies
from the war fields
Here there is no space ..

Do you define this is your victory?
Listen to their souls
For here they lie
to give you life ………..

copyright@Swapna Behera


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