Three Poems by Sarah Das Gupta

 

Magic

Golden Chains

 

Into the forest the maiden walked,

two elegant greyhounds on silken leash.

The summer leaves were emerald green,

her face as fair as a blushing rose.

Deeper she walked where fairies dwell,

where woodpeckers tap their secret code.

Above the crystal water of the stream,

dragon flies hover in the still, silent air.

 

In the heart of the green wood, she hears

the whirring sound of a spinning wheel.

Into the shadow of a cool, hidden glade

my lady walks on silvern shoe.

There at the wheel a princess sits,

spinning fine threads of purest gold.

Her face is like the fairest bloom

that flowers in summer groves.

 

As the maiden looks, the enchantment fades.

The spinner’s face is now an old crone’s,

with toothless smile and ravaged skin.

The golden skein is now golden chains

rattling like prisoners in deepest dungeons.

The greyhounds, black cats with amber eyes,

yowl at the hideous old crone’s feet.

In the invading darkness they burn and glow.

 

The old witch with bony finger beckons,

the Maid’s feet move of their own volition.

At the wheel she sits, fine golden thread spins.

The trees are dark and bare in the cold east wind,

snow falls softly on grass, beech and birch.

The Maid is aging, as in a nightmare!

For her Love she begins to passionately yearn

But the Fates determine, she’ll never return.

 

 

The White Hare

 

A white hare races through the forest,

pine trees whisper secret messages,

bramble thickets give willing refuge,

rooks on high, croak loud warnings.

The spirits side with their own.

 

Pursuers are fast closing in,

galloping horses sweat and strain.

Angry riders whip and urge

a well-aimed arrow, lodges cruelly,

in the back of the ghostly hare.

 

Now over the open field,

he runs faster still, despite

the wound bleeding freely.

The horsemen make a dash

 to catch the fleeing devil

 

A lonely cottage, looms ahead,

the hare flies through the key hole.

The oak door bursts open,

an old crone sits in a rocking chair.

Her black cat glares, amber-eyed.

 

They cannot see from her back

a wound bleeds; blood flows free.

The white hare has vanished.

Only red stains on the rush floor,

show where it may have been.

 

 

(Many cultures, including in UK, have

regarded hares as creatures capable of

changing form. There are many stories

of witches taking the form of hares

to escape reprisal.)

 

 

That Other Country

Dark and deep in the forest the trees press closer.

The canopy is thick, impenetrable, no sky no light

breaks through the green gloom.

A black bird perched still, unmoving on the shadowy pine

may be carved into the frozen branch.

Creepers twist and writhe, green serpents in a green wilderness.

The sudden breeze sets the forest whispering, signalling

a secret, unbreakable arboreal code.

In the tangle of a thorny thicket, the quivering of a leaf

marks hidden life, moving, existing unseen

through the centuries, the epochs the eons of time and of history.

Ants follow in regimental lines unmoved, undisturbed

by Empires, dynasties or conquests.

The silence is broken

by the regular tapping of a green woodpecker,

a message of ancient woodlands.

Silvery trails mark the slow, labyrinthine journeys

of snails over leaves and tall grasses.

As light fades the barking of an old dog fox,

sets off an anxious rustling.

The forest wakes and sleeps

to its own rhythm and purpose.

Sarah Das Gupta is a teacher from near Cambridge, UK. She has also taught in India and Tanzania. Her work has been published in twelve countries and a number of magazines,including, 'Lothlorian', 'The American Review', 'Paddler', 'Perfect Haiku', 'Humana Obscura', 'Green Ink', 'Creation', 'Berlin Review', 'BarBar', 'Danse Macabre' and others.