Poetry by Gautam Sen

We are the home of a bounty of wonderfully talented writers – and poets. Gautam Sen is our only author from India and has penned the fantastical and fun family story – The Fantabulous Fens, a moving and moral story for all ages.

We’re proud to post two of Mr. Sen’s poems which recently appeared in an international Poetry Magazine. We’re proud to be the publisher of his book and to offer these beautiful poems to you.

Adventure

This, too, is adventurous —
Not scaling Kanchenjunga
Or Mount Everest,
Not crossing the Atlantic
Solo in a boat,
Not country-hopping
In a gas balloon,
Not exploring
The jungles of Africa,
Not trekking across the sandy Sahara;
But brushing my teeth,
Yes brushing my teeth
As if it were,
When it’s time to brush my teeth,
The most important task
In the whole wide world,
Brushing them alertly,
With full attention,
Applying myself to the strokes of the brush
In front of my mouth
And behind,
A its hidden corners
And up and down,
Not missing out on the circular motions
That dentists recommend,
And scrupulously keeping at bay
The sad or happy thoughts,
The obsessions,
The ecstasies,
The awesome worries and perplexities,
That threaten to wildly rush in
And take possession —
This giving the so-called minor acts their due,
This true democracy of the spirit,
This pushing out the intruder
Seeking mental entry,
Grappling with it,
Absorbing its blows,
This struggle no one notices
Or appreciates,
This quiet overcoming,
This victory of order over chaos
That nowhere makes headlines,
That you cannot talk about with x or y or z
And get yourself understood —
This, too, is heroism of a kind,
Heroism of a different brand;
This is everyday romance,
No less adventurous,
No less glorious
Than, more sensationally,
Fighting bulls in Spain
Or floating, televised,
In outer space.
 

Trauma

How is it, but how is it
That though the words are much the same
In the Book of Life,
Some meanings suddenly
Have changed?
All tears were water
Till the other day.
And ran in rivulets;
Today my own are dry —
They do not run,
They splinter
into broken sighs!
And rocks …
Yes rocks were solid
Dependable things
That wouldn’t budge an inch
When it came to the crunch …
I’ve seen them crumble into dust
At the first touch
Of an avalanche,
And like a flock of perching birds
Upset by gunshot,
Disperse like panic
In the wind.
Though the words are much the same
In the Book of Life,
There are those
That are differently disposed
From how they were
Before:
Supposedly quiet words explode
And others, considered loud,
Retire into corners
And absently doze.
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