The Ozu Bench
(for Indrani)
We call it the Ozu bench,
she and I. Overhanging
arms of willow, the Raritan
fulsome or reticent, clumps
of wild grass, floating weeds
occasionally, on days mostly
black and white. This corner
of the park, where gulls, ducks,
and egrets, herons sometimes
and plovers flock, is one end
of our world that we stretch
and wrap around our days.
Held back on this shore, on
the Ozu bench, hesitant
of the slender crossing ahead.
A Quiet Morning
Looking back it will be a quiet morning.
Though there was tinkering in the kitchen
The little boy running upstairs
Water shrieking down the plumbing
The super screaming, like every morning, one thing
or another about the general state of the world to
those of the tenants who stop and listen
Back doors banging, heavy tread on the stairs as
people leave for work
Engines revving, the hush of exhaust smoke
in the trailing notes of the wind chime I hung on the back porch
Then the handy man and his retinue of quietly suffering
handy men hammer, saw, drill, and pretty much drown
the tango that someone plays on most Friday mornings.
Looking back it will be a quiet morning
largely because I lay long in bed in answering quietness.
Anannya Dasgupta is a doctoral candidate in the department of English at Rutgers University. Her poetry has appeared in Four and Twenty Magazine. She is also a published art photographer. She lives and works in New Jersey.
(for Indrani)
We call it the Ozu bench,
she and I. Overhanging
arms of willow, the Raritan
fulsome or reticent, clumps
of wild grass, floating weeds
occasionally, on days mostly
black and white. This corner
of the park, where gulls, ducks,
and egrets, herons sometimes
and plovers flock, is one end
of our world that we stretch
and wrap around our days.
Held back on this shore, on
the Ozu bench, hesitant
of the slender crossing ahead.
A Quiet Morning
Looking back it will be a quiet morning.
Though there was tinkering in the kitchen
The little boy running upstairs
Water shrieking down the plumbing
The super screaming, like every morning, one thing
or another about the general state of the world to
those of the tenants who stop and listen
Back doors banging, heavy tread on the stairs as
people leave for work
Engines revving, the hush of exhaust smoke
in the trailing notes of the wind chime I hung on the back porch
Then the handy man and his retinue of quietly suffering
handy men hammer, saw, drill, and pretty much drown
the tango that someone plays on most Friday mornings.
Looking back it will be a quiet morning
largely because I lay long in bed in answering quietness.
Anannya Dasgupta is a doctoral candidate in the department of English at Rutgers University. Her poetry has appeared in Four and Twenty Magazine. She is also a published art photographer. She lives and works in New Jersey.
