The Second Poem of Love

Trees blaze in flames of impossible colors, and she dances
in the alleys of redolent lilacs. Fetch me a little love, she said.
I asked, from where? From the thin air, she said. So, I catch
a butterfly; I count the colors; it has every color a wing can carry.

The Third Poem of Love

Pencils of a drunken moon, vertical and fenestrated through
and through; a grunting noise; a raindrop seeps through the

window pane; blighted midnight; drunk was the moon; alone
she walked into the whispering shadows of unkempt mangrove

Fourth Poem of Love

Wisdom has no love, says the celibate priest, then he weeps,
and says to the priestess: O’ priestess, tear my ornate robe and

listen to my heart’s affliction. My head is wise, but my heart
is not; thus spoken, he placed his heart on a lovely posy; and

offered the priestess his last homily.

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A poet and an accidental physician, M Zaman lives with his lovely wife on the Raquette River in a quaint college town on the foothills of the majestic Adirondacks, enchantingly irenic with rivulets full of toothsome water, and hills rarely trodden. His poems are published or accepted for publication in High Shelf Press, Stardust Review, Black Horse Review and Cathexis North West Press. He also writes in his native language, Bangla. His most recent publication in Bangla is a translation of the Epic of Gilgamesh.