Sudeep Sen: FOUR GHAZALS

Photo by Kaboompics.com

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Monsoon Apertures

Each drop scripts a silence I cannot explain —

the monsoon writes letters across my windowpane.

Your absence is not void, but a humid breath —

it stains my shirt-collar like turmeric or rain.

Even the wind hesitates before touching me —

a lover once bold, now distant and plain.

I measure the light through leaves like time,

each flicker a stanza, each shadow a chain.

The jasmine unfurls — soft, slow, deliberate —

as if memory bloomed only through pain.

We spoke in ellipses, not full stops —

what survived were pauses, not what was plain.

Tonight, the moon leans in like a lens —

focusing grief, Sudeep, not to entertain.

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Between the Lines

The sky folded its wings and fell into night —

no sound, just a cloud drifting in silence.

You turned, half-lit by a hallway’s light —

your shadow said more than you did, in silence.

Letters unopened, postcards without flight —

memory moves slower when held in silence.

Rain traces your name with tentative sight —

each vowel dissolves gently in silence.

Not every wound demands to be right —

some truths are best spoken in silence.

The body remembers what words will fight —

touch is a language learned in silence.

Sudeep, let the poem breathe, not recite —

what’s sacred is shaped best in silence.

{ The repeating refrain (radif) is “in silence.” The qaafiya (rhyming pattern before the refrain) is night / light / flight / sight / right. ]

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Anatomy of Absence

The wind touches bone where flesh was once thin —

I walk through your name without skin.

Silk remembers your scent where lips begin —

but longing is raw without skin.

I press my ear to the walls within —

each echo is sharp without skin.

Was it desire, or a cleaner sin?

Love is less soft without skin.

The night folds clothes like a next of kin —

but warmth unravels without skin.

Sudeep, even poems grow pale and thin —

when they must speak without skin.

[ The radif (refrain) is “without skin,” and the qaafiya (rhyme) is thin / begin / within / sin / kin ]

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Archive

The spine of an old book breaks in quiet trust —

history flakes into the air, a script of dust.

Your wristwatch stops — even metal knows rust —

time keeps its most honest minutes in husks of dust.

I still hear your voice, though I know I must

translate it now through the veil of dust.

The house breathes — a curtain lifts in a gust —

fragments rearrange themselves in gusts of dust.

Some loves don’t die, they simply adjust —

stored in corners, like relics of dust.

Sudeep, do not sweep too clean — we’re just

brief visitors here, made mostly of dust.

[ The radif (refrain) “of dust” and the qaafiya (rhyme) as trust / rust / must / gust / just — ]

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Sudeep Sen is an acclaimed poet, translator, and editor, recognized as a significant figure in contemporary literature. His award-winning oeuvre, including works like Fractals and Anthropocene, is published by prestigious houses like HarperCollins and Penguin Random House and has been translated into over twenty-five languages.

As an influential editor, he has shaped the landscape of English poetry through seminal anthologies for HarperCollins and Sahitya Akademi. His writing is regularly featured in major international publications like the Times Literary Supplement and The Guardian and has been broadcast globally. He is the Poetry and International Editor at Ars Notoria.

Sen’s honors include the A.K. Ramanujan Translation Award, a senior fellowship from the Government of India, and the historic distinction of being the first Asian to deliver the Derek Walcott Lecture. He serves as the editorial director of AARK ARTS and editor of Atlas, continuing his multifaceted contribution to the arts.