Half an Ode to the Night of a HYD-CCU Flight
It looks like a big small town,
A shape of myriad dim lights compressed in black.
I don't know its name, and therefore if i know anyone there.
It looks big enough for half a million people at least,
Too big to be passing so quickly backwards,
Or that if it wasn't for this poem i wouldn't remember it either.
The cabin is dark, outside
The almost full moon shines extra bright,
Like a high central strobe light at a traffic crossing.
But there's nothing to see except my plane's wing.
It's all a kind of illuminated whitish darkness,
If you know what i mean.
Something stirred.
I took out the little Radisson note-pad
And turned my overhead light on.
Poetry, must write, etc.
I struggled through the first stanza, approx.
Rest is from memory, and three days later,
38,000 feet lower, indoors hot afternoon.
Day and night, light and dark, here and there,
Up and down, chilled and hot, then and now,
Poetry fears being stillborn under so much mobility.
My poem was about a high moment Tuesday night,
Now it glistens in memory but I’m gone from view.
Sanjib Basu 