Well, I will give the credit to my parents who named me Sonnet. Many people think it to be my pen name but it is my birth name and my only name.

A poet never writes poetry for masses but strangely a good poet connects well to masses. I constantly try to express my innermost feelings with strength and power of wordings. At the same time I like introducing abstract meanings in my poems. Using bold words often serves this purpose. ‘Soul’ gives a sense of purity and using such words also lights a lamp of optimism in pessimistic poetry.

My favourites keep on changing as I read more but I have an inclination towards Eliot, Whitman, Shakespeare, Tagore and Wordsworth.

 

Humourously, “Jack and Jill”. Normally poems are filled with complexities. I myself to prefer penning complex ones but this is the most innocent poem I have ever read and it has a direct link to the time I cherish the most that is my childhood.

These perspectives give a feeling of freshness in readers. Faith, Love and Beauty exist in all spheres of life and in each mundane thing. Where there is faith there is truth. Where there is truth there is love. Where there is love there is beauty and where there is beauty there is God and connecting to that supreme power hardly leaves any scope of drawbacks.

Recently I have joined The Abandoned Towers magazine as poetry editor and I am also thinking of releasing a special edition of short forms (haikus, sonnets, limericks etc.) from The Enchanting Verses Literary Review. At the same time I am also half way in penning my eighth book of poems.

 

 

 

A blue lake captures my soul in its

unmeasured, unimaginable depths

where a new world better than lands

survive drinking immortality.

 

Howling wolves pierce melancholy

and the dropping leaves stuck with

fever of spring bows down

before the majestic stance

of endless sky and waters.

 

Echo of unknown sounds emerging

from the interstices of the woods

run wildly, circle around ears

like unquenched souls.

Striking against trunks topless trees

they become one with lingering serenity.

 

The bridge connecting them to my land

is left broken for years,

perhaps broken by the Gods

and none has dared to swim across

for both worlds gets bewildered

with the laws in either side of the bridge.

 

 

 

 

 

The far-flung whistle of the colliery

and of the Calcutta-mail

calls me every day after dinner.

 

The train’s shrill echo and

rhythmic melody of wheels

form a sublime image of

the girl out of my dreams,

waving and smiling;

screaming and crying;

standing and waiting

just for me amidst grasses,

trees and hedges that wave

in solitude and hope.

 

The curvature of the lopsided land

plays hide and seek along with

the clouds and moon blurring realism.

 

My belief is incurable and so is

the facade of pleasure that I show

while I follow compellingly,

the whistle of the colliery.

 

My faith lies in the train,

in the wilderness and

the vaporous figure of my love

while my whims are chained

with famine and society

that may identify me as a mad

once I leave my job and run

into the hazy backwoods.

 

 

Sweat tries to swim upwards through the hairs

of a labourer building the statue of the herald

but fails and falls in the soil sucked up by heat,

Vanishes as a struggling animal in quicksand;

Dreams drain and entity turns into fossils as slippers

walk over it.

His weapons are a chisel and spade;

He lifts them to protest but vacuum wailing in the curves

of his muscles make it fall again on the mummified ground;

just to dig, dig the ground for

the Herald's statue must stand firm

or his existence will be buried under its

falling weight.

Toils will evaporate with the smile of the moon

The dawn will hear sounds again-

sounds of iron striking against rocks.

The air waits to weave those sounds

and strike a twister with them-

Tall enough for the world to see

bold enough to step over mountains

Clear enough to show the waving hands

begging a day out of slavery.