Suparna Ghosh has published three books of poetry - Sandalwood Thoughts, a collection of poems and drawings; Dots and Crosses, a prose poem, and Occasionally, which features poems in free verse and ghazals in classical Indo-Persian style, one of which has been translated into Urdu and set to music; she presented the video at the Art Bar in 2018. She was one of the founding members of the Art Bar, the longest-running poetry series in Canada. Her poems have been published in local and international literary journals. Suparna was short-listed for the Montreal International Poetry Prize and published in their Global Poetry Anthology. A grand prize winning poem was choreographed and staged in San Francisco. On February 13, 2019, she was one of seven poets to participate in Poetry in Union, a partnership between the League of Canadian Poets and the Union Station, and wrote personal poems for passengers. Her paintings were chosen for the Canadian Art of Imagination show featuring international artists. Her work titled Vigil was one of the finalists in the Arts and Letters Club of Toronto competition, NEXT! 2015, as well as in N3XT! 2020. She has exhibited her paintings in Toronto, New York, San Francisco, Seoul, Mumbai and New Delhi. Please visit suparnaghosh.com for further information.
My soul is old so old
with ancient texts
running through its veins
and capillaries
Aerial chants still echo
against my walls
covered in fragrant moss
and inked scrolls
Erotic verses sung on days and nights
of passion and exploration in
the valleys of a lover
resonate still
I wait for the allure of ephemeral sounds
and antique emotions
to evanesce one day
into the unknown
My Fall Madness,
Today began with the chatter of crows
astride the clothesline.
You hear their incessant babble, tittle tattle?
I dipped a lock of my hair in India ink
and sketched a stream of these magnificent,
sleek, black winged creatures -
a crow pecking at your breast
and a crow plucking your hair
to line its nest.
Remember how I always clutched your folds,
even when my empty hands were too rough
from decades of red dust,
or too parched to hold and mould
a lump of clay in the shape of your breast,
or too worn to hold a pen
and draw your folds with soot
from burnt wood?
Still too warm to call it a day in autumn.
The lizards are still crawling on the walls
chasing the moths.
Still not in hibernation.
While I tug at your memory,
tell me all about fall
wherever you are.
Your Distant Love
My Distant Love
I have become an occasional traveller
carrying in my eyes a reservoir
of occasional monsoon rain.
Autumn is here.
When the leaves turn ochre
and burnt umber and beige
and stain the pavements,
I think of your chocolate skin
and earth-brown eyes
and desert-fawn hair.
When fall falls
I see a crimson leaf
dart into an unforgiving grey shroud
driven by a hissing wind.
I think of your brown eyes turning grey
and angry earth-red fingers clutching my hair.
I remember you said don’t go.
I had to leave.
The call of the unknown was relentless,
a restless storm in search of a storm,
a storm-chaser hypnotized by a funnel cloud.
I chased the call of the unknown
and got sucked in the vortex.
a visit to the dark interior
is for another dark day
another dense evening
a midnight vigil
or a feckless afternoon
for today there has been
an ambush
by the buxom beauty
of a monsoon rain
with a dash of panache
from overhanging clouds
a splash of style
over eaves of leaves
the grace of a wave
in the belly of the sea
and the hint of mint
in the mustard fields
today
the restless rain has stilled
the inner courtyard
of a restive mind
The turquoise nights, her jasmine days
lingered in his lashes, floated in his hair.
Where are they now, where were they then?
Her life, a flimsy fabric,
adorned with platinum stars, flaming suns.
A universe unfurled, a barren story unfolded.
You may try to convey another tale.
But what's the point, where's the sense,
They’ll rebound to the turquoise nights
and return to the jasmine days.
Today another birth,
Tomorrow another birth,
Yesterday, a rebirth.
There is something about living
In an ancient land.
You feel forever young
And forever old.
And forever alive
And forever dead.
Aging, ageless,
Very meaningful,
Very meaningless.
Tethered by moments,
Unleashed by years,
Timley, timeless,
Timebound.
Filled with apathy and undying concern
For nothing and everything
And everyone.
There is something about living
In an ancient land.
Even the breeze is an intrusion when you and I meet
Like a ship on the horizon where the earth and sky meet
Your eyes trace my form on the yellow and red sand
Where the roar of the waves and the gull’s cry meet
When your madness brews it’s like a distant storm
With shuttered eyes I wait till you and I meet
Your desolate words scatter in the wayward wind
And I watch across the bridge as a song and sigh meet
Now your lights are dim and your sails are limp
Why clutch why seek why forage why meet
