The Outsider and Other Poems

By Mukut Borpujari

The Outsider

Memories are breathing down inside me now, 
everything slowing to the pace of a snail.
Tiptoeing across the yard, the old cat watching—
the pace too slow even for him.
A crack in the earth opens, and roots 
rise up to trip me. Thirst lives in me, 
and the fear of thirst, solitude and the fear 
of solitude, death and the fear of death,
though only it will silence me. I remember 
the abandoned lorries standing on
roadside, doors open. 
I saw through them dry fields 
beyond. The owl sitting on the gatepost late 
in the evening, the canal and its flowing stream,
cows grazing in its pasture—I was afraid 
I’d lose them. If I could only keep them steadfast.
The long days filled me with longings 
and in pursuit 
of something exquisite that eludes me. 
Always clumsy, 
never knowing the manners 
of the place where I have lived.

Sunday

Sunday evening wore on  
under the sprawling oak  
behind my room  
where honeybees made a hive;  
sunflowers stood tall over the  
dense undergrowth. 

At a distance the weeping willow; 
children and men could inhabit  
under it for a summer afternoon.  
Squirrels chase each other  
up and down 
on the live oak trunk, scratching the bark.  

There had been another tree  
where two neighborhood girls  
made a hammock to sit in — 
chickens and pigeons created a 
weird cacophony in the backyard. 

The neighbor whose name  
I never knew, 
came out to yell at his children  
playing in the front, from the portico, 
wearing only a pair of shorts and 
rubber slippers. 

As I watched from my window, 
to see his daughter’s tears 
running down her cheeks, 
the way they do every Sunday evening, 
because it’s the time to turn in  
and tomorrow is a school day.  

They don’t care 
about the sky turned pink and orange  
around the neighbor’s house,  
ending a day about a house  
that held a man’s life.

February

I’m crawling out of this season of hard cold winter,
That stayed long enough. 
The bottom of my feet kicked up dirt on the hard asphalt.
When I planted a mango tree it smelled of green earth — 
Pulsing sun, dirt, and water. 
I do remember this. I pinned summer light upon my back 
And made no apologies for the space I took up — 
Barely clothed and sun-burned.

Now, a ball of cotton in the grey sky. 
The sun rolls low on the horizon, hangs, 
Then dips behind a city block.
Wind howling us into the night.
Inside in the erratic rhythm of this flickering 
Shadows and light, 
I conjure up the potent sky of the longest day;
Seeds, with a whole galaxy inside them. 
Cicadas vibrating outside
On the branches of a giant neem tree.

I never expected to find myself in such a cold place,
My hands dry out against the cold. 
I let the memory out, let it linger on the horizon,
Some kind of flying like a kite — again and again. 
I loosen the buckles of my mind to fly back in time,
To the days of dried out paddy fields, and herds of cattle —
I let it stay there.

The Cat

I can hear you all night
scratching with low sound
calling out for men and gods;
fate written on our forehead—
all the right incense of callous summer 
and winter alike. Buds of spring
sprouting through the confusion
You're inviting all of us
by that I mean me
your scratching for me, myself and I
this morning, tomorrows 
and my midnights
always now, scratching for me
I groan full steam
fields of mustards, bridge to the north
the gravel road and the boats
River flows beneath the bridge
sparkling stream, spirits of the river
my gods…

The Rebel

With a flagrant disregard for existing social norms,
something’s brewing in the anvil of thought.  
Wild rhododendrons and bougainvilleas running 
along the wall,   
as we denounce the barriers of casteism and marginalization.
No to the elite. 
No to centuries of limiting beliefs and traditions, 
their insistence—the shackles of our own minds.  
At midnight, 
in the waning light of the stars in the sky,
the silhouette of our necks interlocked like flamingos. 
I miss you. I never even met you: 
let us take a deep dive into our imaginations, 
until we find the right imagery and metaphors 
we can discuss—dissect; 
not for ego’s sake, but for love. 

Mukut Borpujari is a graduate in English Literature and a Masters in Computer Application (MCA) degree holder.  Based in Guwahati, Assam, INDIA, his poems appeared in various international literary journals and magazines, including Mount Hope Magazine of the prestigious Roger Williams University (RWU), Bristol, Rhode Island, USA and New Feathers Anthology. Remington Review and Zephyr Review, Cerasus Magazine, London, UK, Copihue Poetry, The Chapter House Journal, Last Stanza Poetry Journal, Strange Horizons are other major journals where his poems appeared. He was also long listed in this year’s Erbacce-prize for poetry 2023.