Basudhara Roy (India)

Basudhara Roy (India)
Basudhara Roy is Assistant Professor of English at Karim City College, Jamshedpur, Jharkhand, India. An alumnus of Banaras Hindu University, she holds a Ph.D. in diaspora women’s writing from Kolhan University, Chaibasa. Her areas of academic interest are diaspora writing, cultural studies, gender studies and postmodern criticism. As a poet and reviewer, her work is featured/upcoming in anthologies and magazines like The Helter Skelter Anthology of New Writing in English, The Aleph Review, The Poetry Society of India, Mad in Asia Pacific, Teesta, Borderless, Muse India, Shabdadguchha, Cerebration, Rupkatha, Triveni, and Setu among others. She has authored two books, Migrations of Hope (Criticism; New Delhi: Atlantic Publishers, 2019) and Moon in My Teacup (Poetry; Kolkata: Writer’s Workshop, 2019). Her second poetry collection, Stitching a Home, is forthcoming in 2021.
But how, across
this hungry blackness of time,
will you find your way
back to me?
The syllables of promise
run awry,
like a jigsaw fashioned
Your treasure of words
has been spent elsewhere,
and dry winds have blown away
the footprints of faith.
Lest the return
should shatter you,
retrace not in Love’s name
these once-abandoned shores.
Forever beyond, though,
the combs of my longing,
it soothes the heart to know that
somewhere, at least, you are whole.
To thee, wayfarer of light,
that chase the brilliance
of a thousand suns,
darkness is but a rare hour
in the relentless succession of days
as success-studded, glory-borne,
you claim the hopeful wealth of brightness.
If perchance, however, ominous clouds
should choose to gather upon your ways;
if promises should be dimmed, and
the dancing rays shred to dust;
do not then hesitate, to call on me
for I haven’t changed my address.
An inhabitant still of these
faithful plains of darknesses,
my refuge shall be yours.
And together once more, we shall read
those unlearned hieroglyphs of waiting,
till your hope strikes roots
and your sun, rises again.
In Writing
In writing, I unwind
and unwomb thoughts,
I would have left unsaid
had we only met.
Now long-preserved tresses
of napthalened darknesses
from heirloom chests
with tear-patched mildew,
in withered words,
find their way to you.
And you guileless wanderer
across distant skies,
heir to this calligraphy
of excavated sighs,
walk free to squander, hoard
or disown in rhyme
these belated confessions
of a lifetime.
I once farmed poems in your name –
shower-drenched, dew-lorn, grassy verses
in love’s tepid sunshine –
Only to uproot them one by one,
and transplant elsewhere;
pruning tell-tale metaphysical marks
on immortal typescript.
Today, they stand without you,
re-crafted, buttressed;
transformed memorials
in honour of new-valourized gods.

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