The Macrame of Carnal Waves & Other Poems

by Sreyash Sarkar

The Macrame of Carnal Waves

”Love is a shadow.

How you lie and cry after it.

Listen: these are its hooves: it has gone off, like a horse.”

             – Sylvia Plath


 Below the highway darkness turns the heath

To ancient shapes, to where the wind trots on hooves,

The mist acloak swirling, or further back

To that with eyes and claws and scales and beak.

She grips the wheel, following dotted lines:

No traffic and yet she keeps to the lane.

A tick could throw her lighted world out of gear,

The  earth erupts into all that has been there.


As burnt stars fill the night,

I remember her like imprints of a swan’s feet left on sand

Drenched in lunar ecstasy,

That she rushed in like July ebbs,

And returned with receding flows

While by the river side rests a shattered boat,

its worn-out sails

Awaits a dreamer’s touch, like the gush of torrential winds with impending motion to transcend the silence of oars…

I anticipate, alone, grasping her morose clay

As the norms go before cremating- so dark and detached.

While the bond between living fingers and deceased dull eyes

Dream of galloping across meadows-


March days return with their covert light,and huge fishes swim through the sky,vague earthly vapours progress in secret,things slip to silence one by one.

Through fortuity, at this crisis of errant skies,

She reunites the lives of the sea to that of fire,grey lurchings of the ship of winter,to the form that love carved in the guitar.

As seen in fantasy and observed in facts

We evolve to humanity from mere human beings.

As I dispose all of her that remained

And witness how waves wash away burnt stars

And how the neon beacons on masked sails, distressed…


The Cage

It was the day that

The bird flew away to a horizon

Unknown, beyond reach

Incapable of childish marriages and fluid births,

Setting out a cry, distinct in its screech, the retaining tone

It scratched the earth, untill colourless blood oozed out of it

Drop, by drop, and then a flood….


I did not remember anything

I was still taking the fragrance of the smothered rice bowl

Empty of its contents

And stripped of its identity

But I did ask, and further asked  myself in the dark,

About the shiver down my spine



The shiver had turned into a


Something was being churned in the granary

A small grain, a jinx

Wafted about in the sick air


I did not remember anything

I was still taking the fragrance

Of the smothered rice, bowl

Empty of its contents

Stripped of its identity


Something was being cooked

Inside me

Persistently in frivolous extents

That ensnared my instincts

Cooked and cooked

Till scarlet,

Fresh from my blood.



“Our indiscretion sometimes serve us well, when our dear plots do pall…”- Hamlet, 5.2.7, Shakespeare.


‘The dawn has descended upon us’, said the Elder ,

Let us hurry, or be hunted

Let us conjecture, or be battered

Let us herald, or be outwitted


The little girl, inebriated in the beauty of the words,

Is lost in an ineluctable void

Not a dream, not a nightmare..

The panoply of the setting sun

A Subliminal enticement

An Enervate mind

The poke, the stirring

The unavoidable voice from within..



The lost one is lost again

The discovered one is extinct

The unfathomable is ethereal

Out came the menorah

Of realization

Not a dream, not a nightmare..


The harlot smiled;

The moonstruck man laughed

The ineligible bride rejoiced

And the enlightened, jocund

Not a dream, not a nightmare..


The girl stood.

A jiffy, jeopardized with happiness..

Blossomed and faded

Blossomed and faded

Enshrined and faded

Captured and faded

Faded and faded..

Blasé. Blemished.

Not a dream, not a nightmare…

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