Three Poems By Shome Dasgupta
Larry Syverson, Acadian village - July 1985 - Lafayette, Louisiana, CC BY-SA 2.0
The Clasp of the Rake
A sift of flaked leaves
and fallen moss—dirt
cooled between fingers,
crisp and brown, netted
grass itch for an earth:
slushed Louisiana under
afghans of caked foliage,
spark—a sparkle, a frail
fall and tangs of smoke
from burnt fields of cane,
teardrop ash, a flailing—
flickering like dropped
stars in horizon winds
from the Gulf. Soon—
a gathering of soft mud:
a harvest when rabbits
and raccoons lift paws
and hinds and stretch
toward evening yawn,
over a plain, a mosquito
—full, a history of farm
and thinned plains, floats
from bent petal to petal,
in search of roots, to tell
stories of times before—
Mawmaw
Mawmaw is no longer dead—
so says the city of Maurice:
I was at the local grocery store,
located inside the gas station,
two cans of dip at the counter—
Rooster—I needed a burn. Sore
gums and spotted teeth—black
and grainy: spitting gives purpose
to a summer Louisiana heat, rain
and Gulf humidity—nothing else
to do outside. The lady shook
her head and prayed out loud:
three Hail Marys as if the priest
is on the other side at church—
she couldn't believe it: Mawmaw
is back—she ain't dead no more.
My Dida is an owl: a visit, stooped
in our garage—she passed away
two weeks before then, Parkinson’s
led her to a life of wings and wisdom.
I waved to her before she flew away,
a prayer, much like the lady behind
the counter—I saw her green sari
and bright red bindi, bangles on thin
wrists and standing on the balcony
of a Kolkata flat: yellow rusted rails
and a blackbird. The sun was special
that day, how she rose from her chair
and smiled—the bird cawed before
taking off. The owl soars into mind
today while she whispers Mawmaw:
a bird outside—I nod, maybe wave.
Growing Up Lafayette
Gulf winds and nodded chimneys,
swimming in flooded roads, free,
the taste of mud—clay tapped our
tongues, gritted and coarse from
earth’s burnt gumbo. Fais do do
lullabies sung from Sunday AM
at Randol’s, we hummed along,
and jumped on trampolines: up—
toward a Cajun soleil, drenched
shirts bought from Judice Inn,
a well behaved lunch and two
bags of Zapp’s Crawtators led
to evening naps. Come night—
howling mosquitoes: thick Creole
tomatoes vines and curled, moon
filled eyes await another rain,
toujours—a rabbit and raccoon
play along fence lines and bark:
a scratch and a scratch, pressed
gardens, imprinted with souls
and soles of Deep South folk.
About the Author
Shome Dasgupta is the author of The Seagull And The Urn (HarperCollins India), and most recently, the novels The Muu-Antiques (Malarkey Books) and Tentacles Numbing (Thirty West), a prose collection Histories Of Memories (Belle Point Press), a short story collection Atchafalaya Darling (Belle Point Press), and a poetry collection Iron Oxide (Assure Press). His writing has appeared in McSweeney's Internet Tendency, Emerson Review, New Orleans Review, Jabberwock Review, American Book Review, Arkansas Review, Magma Poetry, and elsewhere. He lives in Lafayette, LA and can be found at www.shomedome.com and @laughingyeti.