‘Transient’ by Suchitra G. Das The Society March 14, 2016 Beauty, Poetry 2 Comments Transient I lingered along the sandy runway Hearing the winds blowing about; A tender voice from far, faraway, “Hurry, or we’ll be late,” calls out. I cannot tear myself from it all. “Wait,” I say, “Let me be a while For the seagulls call, the waves call And the call of the deep blue wild. Let me tarry a little longer; A few minutes to see the foam, A second to hear the roar, And a few more to hear a song.” The gentle heave and release of mists Inform me the good earth is alive; In million clustered breathing twists, It somersaults into a cresting dive. Waves spray me with mineral salts As winds tug my hair into a coiffure; Perfumed is my soul with ocean scents As liquids drape my body in rapture. Graceful ballerinas in swirls and twists Stir up a frenzy of emerald and teal Like flamenco dancers in lace skirts, Tattoo a mesmerizing beat with zeal. Quickening my pace I throw a glance Over my shoulder and see a pattern: Footsteps follow from a long distance In a steady trail willing me to return. The symmetrical prints resembling mine Have me amused until seafoam rain Curls over my toes, pulling them in, Turning the soaked sands virgin again. Life has turned into a gypsy, Setting up the occasional tent, But gather we do so much whimsy, Forgetting only change is permanent. Leave, I know I must make haste Into another world that waits. There is so much to see and to taste In distant lands and strange plates. The Chair The chair, just like that On a tract of no man’s land An hour goes by and I in my car Notice, it went nowhere, It was just there, Bare. The chair, the Chair: A patriarch’s position, A monarch’s validation, A politician’s preoccupation, A company’s reputation. The chair, the Chair: A doctor’s office, A court’s edifice, A principal’s notice, A shrink’s hypnosis. The chair, the Chair A poet’s block, A philosopher’s rock, A mentor’s talk, A teacher’s prop. The chair, the Chair: A devil’s scepter, A murderer’s terror, A maniac’s horror, A prisoner’s torture. Quite simply, the chair With a back rest, and a square Four legs, and arms in a pair, Steal sleep, and furrow brows, Stoke ambitions and stifle throats Feast on souls and beckon moths. Then there is that CHAIR One day confronting all When life courts chaos Drumming up a list of acts Wayward and winsome, Wanton and worthy some, A final verdict that’s to come. The chair, Too inviting, I guess Too tempting to resist From a tract of no man’s land Two hours later and I in my car Notice, to be found Nowhere. Suchitra G. Das did her M.A. in English Literature and Language Communications, and M.Phil. in Latin American Literature. She currently lives in California with her family. She is a writer, an entrepreneur, and an artist. She has published articles, essays, short stories and poems. Her most recent publications are: The Bangle Seller in Rock Pebbles Literary Journal Winter 2015, Three Poems in The Dhauli Review Fall 2015, Cherry Blossoms and Time in Utkarsa March 2015, Winter Eve in Utkarsa December 2014, and a short story, One More Taj Mahal, in OSA Souvenir July 2014. Featured Image: “Off Conanicut, Newport” by William Trost Richards. NOTE: The Society considers this page, where your poetry resides, to be your residence as well, where you may invite family, friends, and others to visit. Feel free to treat this page as your home and remove anyone here who disrespects you. Simply send an email to firstname.lastname@example.org. Put “Remove Comment” in the subject line and list which comments you would like removed. The Society does not endorse any views expressed in individual poems or comments and reserves the right to remove any comments to maintain the decorum of this website and the integrity of the Society. Please see our Comments Policy here. Share this:Click to share on Twitter (Opens in new window)Click to share on Facebook (Opens in new window)Click to print (Opens in new window)Click to share on LinkedIn (Opens in new window)Click to share on WhatsApp (Opens in new window)Click to email this to a friend (Opens in new window)Click to share on Pinterest (Opens in new window) 2 Responses Benjamen Grinberg March 16, 2016 in essence time is but a whim that goes and comes within one’s mind just as the waves of oceans soar and rise and fall with faith divine Reply Siddharth Das January 12, 2017 Timeless poems….eternal bliss! Reply Leave a Reply Cancel ReplyYour email address will not be published.CommentName* Email* Website Notify me of follow-up comments by email. Notify me of new posts by email. This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.