Dr. Sunil Sharma (India)

Dr. Sunil Sharma (India)

Sunil Sharma, an academic administrator and author-critic-poet–freelance journalist, is from suburban Mumbai, India. He has published 21 books so far, some solo and some joint, on prose, poetry and criticism.

He edits the monthly, bilingual Setu:

http://www.setumag.com/p/setu-home.html

For more details of publications, please visit the link below:

http://www.drsunilsharma.blogspot.in/

 

Passion

Words can become frigid in a global market. They no longer respond as they
did—earlier but those were simpler times.

Not anymore. Words are overworked—like executives riding subways or trams or cars to their offices in the SEZs across the world, layered with gloss.

Then, an occasional break, some literary place…
in new hands, they get charged, become fiery

 

The girl on the threshold

A girl-child, unsure,

Standing near the partially-door
Of a neighbour’s, suburban Mumbai high-rise,

Tentative, quiet,
Searching for a friend

With round eyes in that
Dusty passage, desolate
With locked doors, both sides.

Whipped by a whistling wind
The frail child looks scared

Her solitary childhood stark lonely

As

A bright fire burning in a street corner,
In a locality where adults hardly talk with each other
In the lift or the corridors.

 

The December wind

This Monday morning wind of December,
Raw and arrogant,
Aware of its power immense,
Walks like a mast elephant,
Rampaging everything,

Or, a youth in love,
Caressing everybody with its
Alpha hands,
Knocking things in the
Deserted hall, crowded
Living room,
Of a 2BHK suburban-Mumbai flat;

The cold breath of mild winter
Being carried on its invisible wings,
—How does it sweep the entire region!
This big-bosomed wind, knocking off the caps
And slipping inside the shirts and tinkling
Bare skins— and whistling in pleasure,
A dulcet long moaning heard after very long in a
Working couple’s bedroom,
The whistling done by a
Smiling patient recovering
Slowly from a fatal disease,
Or—
Like an out –of-work guy,
Sitting/fretting home for three
Bleak months, then suddenly getting hired
On a long-distance call,
For a tiny office full of faded hopes,
In a busy Detroit, Delhi, or, Madrid.

 

Delight

Long-distance relationship
between a dad and son
in a high-tech world—distant,
yet intimate, like a Keats poem
memorised before the oral exam
five decades ago,

returning suddenly
on that rain-swept night
like a prodigal son
exhausted,
giving delayed delight
to his native home.

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