The spatial mass downward hurled
By friction lost, shed and rubbed
A glorious blaze trailed behind
Of fire and light sideways and hind
A meteoric rise, nay fall I find
Which match could none however it tried
‘Twas visible to apparatus astronomical and kind
Could scarce discern the naked eye n’mind
The majestic delight
The regal flight from celestial height
The leaden lump energized fright
From slumber awoke the wrong and right
To behold the spectacle burning bright
Silver and blue metallic might
Illumined streaked black night.


Author Bio:
Born one fine Indian midsummer in the walled city of Delhi, Subir Kumar Sen had spent his childhood, in awe of the splendid red sandstone fort, sprawling gardens, and lofty minarets in close proximity. There were bazaars of archaic ways boasting of all kind of antique wares which would carry one away to lands of fantasy. He was interested in poetry since childhood. He was inspired to write what went on within him, his mind and heart. He wanted to portray what all he went through, what all he had seen and could imagine. He had read poems written by the great masters, and was inspired to portray in his own small way. He holds a degree in English and has also studied Italian at the Italian Embassy and is a professional Italian translator. He is multilingual and is well versed in Hindi and Bengali, too. He currently stays on the outskirts of Delhi.

He tries to be very honest with his poems and writes what he sincerely feels. He loves to play with words because they are the ones which ultimately stir the senses.

The thunderclaps, the jagged strokes of rage
were all interior. The movement above them now
will seem like immobility. The clouds upend
and peak. They are mountains as still as the light.
 
The afternoon has ebbed to the second line of trees:
because we watch within the shadows, we can see.
Noon shoots from the hip, savage and blind.
The slanting sun is also merciless, but truer
to the shape of things as they are.
 
It’s not too late for the lake, you say.
We slip from the dock.  Our bodies drift
with the clouds on blackened glass,
reflections among reflections.
 
Summer circles down into the past, blank
as the sudden chill, the outcrops of rock.
The shore retreats. Our ripples sheer away,
like missing words the dead withhold.
 
But that is how we are loved.
Loved as a mirror, a night-wall.
Loved as an indifference.


Author Bio:
Hoyt Rogers is a writer and translator. He translates from the French, German, Italian, and Spanish. He has published many books; he has contributed poetry, fiction, essays, and translations to a wide variety of periodicals. His edition of Yves Bonnefoy's Rome, 1630 received the 2021 Translation Prize from the French-American Foundation. His forthcoming works include a poetry collection, Thresholds (MadHat Press), the novel Sailing to Noon (book one of The Caribbean Trilogy), and a translation of Bonnefoy’s The Wandering Life (Seagull Books). For more information, please visit his website, hoytrogers.com.