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.