Roop Majumdar

2 Poems

The Peacock

That lumbering train,
tarpaulin wings brushing
stone chips and dust,
that heaving gush to the
terrace, keeping vigil
over flower pots
and threats from
the neighbouring
desert—always making
a song and dance about
everything—a block of
iridescence against
the co-operative’s cream.

The spit and crackle
of tempering in daal.
Heeng laps the morning
sun and from time to time
it all turns dark. He
in blood-iron notes
of dampened earth,
the frantic beating of
wooden windows,
white noise,
tarring to clarity
against the neon
gradient of night,
his plume a
tousled glisten
off the ledge.



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