poet Bijay Kant Dubey

Bijay Kant Dubey

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Asthi-Kalasha (A Series Of Poems)

Whose asthi-kalasha is this,
Whose asthi-kalasha?

It is, it is the asthi-kalasha,
Of my mother, my mother.

Whose, whose asthi-kalasha,
Whose, whose?

Of my mother, mother,
Of my mother,

A small earthen urn,
Hanging, hanging by the pole.

A small, small kalasha,
Hanging, hanging by the bamboo pole.

A small pitcher, small pitcher
Containing the ashes.

Ashes, ashes of my dead,
Dead mother,

A soul left, left forlorn,
Forlorn and bereaved,
Deceased and bereft.

A soul, soul
Bereaved and wandering,
Wandering and wailing with the wind.

The asthi-kalasha of my mother, mother!

Whose, whose asthi-kalasha,
Is this?

It is, it is of my mother,

My mother,
My mother,
Mother, my mother!

The asthi-kalasha of my mother,
My mother dead and left for!

The asthi-kalasha,
Asthi-kalasha of mother,
My mother!

Hanging by the bamboo pole,
Bamboo pole.

By the bamboo pole,
An asthi-kalasha,
An urn containing ashes.

An asthi-kalasha,
Kalasha, kalasha
Full of bone contents.

A kalasha, kalasha,
Full of ashes,
Ashes, bodily ashes.

Asthi-kalasha, asthi-kalasha,
Full of ashes,
Ashes, bodily ashes.

The body which it matters it not,
The soul which leaves it finally
When the body of flesh and bones goes frail and weak.

The body, body which it is not my own,
The soul, soul which but it transmigrates,
Migrates and it not own.

The body, body which it is not my own,
The body which, which it dies,
Is not ours, ours.

The soul, soul too not own,
Own, but of other domains
Mystical and unknown.

As opened I the door,
The door of my house,

Found I,
Found I the kalasha,
Asthi-kalasha of my mother.

Hanging by the bamboo pole.

As I opened,
Opened the door of my house,
House one night.

As, as I
One night,
One night.

One lonely,
Lonely and deserted night,
One deep and dark night.

When the world was sleeping,

The wide-wide world
Stood it lonely and silent,
Manless and deserted.

As, as I,
I one night,
As, as and when.

Opened I the door,
The door of the house,
Found, found I the asthi-kalasha.

The asthi-kalasha
Hanging by the pole.

The asthi-kalasha,
Hanging, hanging by.

Mother was not,
But her, her kalasha.

Hanging, hanging by the pole.

The asthi-kalasha,
Lay it hanging.

Hanging by
The door,

Opened I, opened I the door.

Of my house,
My house
One midnight.

Dark and lonely,
Dark and lonely.

Found I,
Found I
The kalasha.

The kalasha,
The asthi-kalasha
Of my mother deceased.

With the navel,
Put into.

The navel,
Navel which burnt it,
Burnt it.

Like a diya,
A diya
Glowing with the oil wick.

Lit and lighting,
The ways.

A lamp,
A lamp burning,
Burning dimly.

Flickering and flaring
And flaming.

The diya,
The earthen diya
Lighting and lighting.

Under the stars
Twinkling without answers.

The asthi-kalasha,
Of my mother, mother.

Dead, dead and gone,
Gone, gone and left for,
Left for the heavenly abode.

Burnt she on the funeral pyre,
Going into flames,
Flames feeding upon.

Flames, flames,
Fire flames singing,
Singing it the body to ashes.

When the body burnt it to ashes
Reduced it to coal,
Coal and ashes.

The body burnt it completely,
The body
With nothing there as a relic.

But the navel,
The navel kept it burning,
Burning for some time.

Which the cremators,
Collected, collected the fire fragment.

To be put,
Put into a small pitcher
Just for namesake.

With the mud
Wrapped, wrapped over the kalasha,
The kalasha earthen and symbolic.

As and when
Opened I, opened I the door.

The door,
The door of my house
Found, found I kalasha hanging.

Hanging, hanging by the pole
Near the door,
The door.

The kalasha,
The kalasha,
The asthi-kalasha of my dead mother.

Mother is not,
But her remains
Contained in the pot.

Which but,
Which but saw I speechlessly,
Dumb-founded and solemnly.

The asthi-kalasha,
The asthi-kalasha hanging,
Hanging by the pole.

Topic(s) of this poem: art

Poem Submitted: Friday, February 15, 2019

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