The Cage

It was the day that
The bird flew away to a horizon
Unknown, beyond reach
Incapable of childish marriages and fluid births,
Setting out a cry, distinct in its screech, the retaining tone
It scratched the earth, until colourless blood oozed out of it
Drop, by drop, and then a flood…

I did not remember anything
I was still taking the fragrance of the smothered rice bowl
Empty of its contents
And stripped of its identity
But I did ask, and further asked myself in the dark,
About the shiver down my spine

The shiver had turned into a
Something was being churned in the granary
A small grain, a jinx
Wafted about in the sick air

I did not remember anything
I was still taking the fragrance
Of the smothered rice, bowl
Empty of its contents
Stripped of its identity

Something was being cooked
Inside me
Persistently in frivolous extents
That ensnared my instincts
Cooked and cooked
Till scarlet,
Fresh from my blood

Sreyash Sarkar

About Ijagun Poetry Journal

Ijagun Poetry Journal is a quarterly journal that provides a platform from which we can tell our own stories in the authenticity of their multiplicity through the poetic medium. We don’t want to hear these stories from our master “griots” alone; we want to hear from those mastering their art, too. Hence, we aim at publishing new and emerging poets. We also welcome the works of established poets in order to encourage the poetic genius of those mastering poetic art. We prize original works that conform to, break or reinvent conventions. Again, we accept reviews and critical essays on poetry. We also accept powerful art works and photographs that make us appreciate the "poetry" in everything.
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