One December London morning, someone asks: ‘do you live in Bloomsbury?’
‘No,’ I say. But by afternoon, two abandoned bicycles await us at Bloomsbury
Some weep for history, some weep for love, with nowhere to hide and nothing to bury
Some buy a tangerine to colour their moods, where Dalloway Street crosses Bloomsbury
The glint of glass in the gutter from shards of a crowd’s buried laughter
I stoop to salvage the slivers of her blush by the Museum in Bloomsbury
Moonlight pools upon the stagnant, slicked-up snow
With aluminum arcs from Russell Square to Bloomsbury
The distant church bells ring promises that were ours
Lanterns sway on an empty aisle in a benighted Bloomsbury
The tolling echoes through the cloisters of the Foundling Hospital
Still healing the frosted glass at Bedford Square, in Bloomsbury
Cobblestones gleam beneath café chairs in a golden moonlit drizzle
The espresso at the street’s edge simmers of your silver anklet, in Bloomsbury
An umbrella cuts through the platinum haze whose junction lights explain
Sufiya stood vaguely waiting in these bewildered arches of Bloomsbury
A eucalyptus leans in the dark against a moribund brickbound lane
Its shadow holds our unwhispered vows, from faraway to Bloomsbury
Tomatoes ripen under awnings where arcane torches still burn
I breathe the salt of your longing here, from St Pancras to Bloomsbury
A Georgian facade bears my name as a manuscript flutters my shaking palm
The book too has shuttered panes, and mirrored afterlives in Bloomsbury
Qasim, look how you desire to be remembered for your mawkish failures!
Have you forgotten the ‘half naked fakir,’ whose bust still ponders in Bloomsbury?
Image Courtesy: Belinda Cave, Pixabay.
Arup K. Chatterjee 