Sonnet Mondal

- India -

Sonnet Mondal was born and brought up in Kolkata, West Bengal. He has authored nine poetry books including An Afternoon in My Mind (Copper Coin 2022) and Lautaten Dopaheren (Rajkamal Prakashan 2024). He has read as an invited poet at literary festivals in over twenty countries. He was awarded Gayatri Gamarsh Memorial Award for literary excellence in 2016 and was shortlisted for Sahitya Akademi Yuva Award in 2024. His works have appeared in the Harper’s Bazaar, Virginia Quarterly Review, Stand Magazine, Words Without Borders, Singing in the Dark (Penguin Random House), and Mascara Literary Review among others. Mondal was one of the authors of the Silk Routes project of the IWP, Iowa from 2014 to 2016 and was Guest Writer in Residence at the Almaty Writing Residency, Kazakhstan in 2023. Founder director of Chair Poetry Evenings, Mondal edits the Indian section of Lyrikline and serves as managing editor of Verseville. He has been a guest editor for Words Without Borders.

Sonnet Mondal's poetry is an acute exploration of socio-political themes, often addressing uncomfortable truths about humanity and the establishment. His works exhibit a transcendental quality that encourages deep reflection through astute and powerful verses. For instance, in his poem ‘To Syrian Children,’ Mondal employs striking imagery to convey the harrowing impact of war on innocent lives. Sonnet Mondal’s poetry stands as a powerful testament to the emotional and intellectual concerns of our time. With a keen eye for the details of modern existence and an unflinching honesty in his exploration of the self, he continues to captivate readers around the world. In a literary landscape often defined by abstraction and elitism, Mondal’s straightforward yet thought-provoking voice offers a refreshing and much-needed perspective. In many ways, Mondal’s work can be seen as an ongoing dialogue between the individual and the collective, between self-assertion and self-doubt.

In addition to socio-political commentary, Mondal's collection ‘Karmic Chanting’ delves into mysticism and sensitivity, reflecting the complexity of human experience. His poetry exhibits a distinct blend of sensuousness and subjectivity. Such versatility is evident across his various collections including ‘An Afternoon in My Mind’ and ‘Karmic Chanting’, where he navigates diverse topics ranging from nature to everyday life. His work often navigates the tension between the individual and the collective, with an emphasis on the emotional and psychological landscapes of modern existence. Themes such as love, alienation, and existential angst recur throughout his poetry, presented with a raw authenticity that speaks to the vulnerability of the human experience. In addition to his exploration of personal and emotional themes, Mondal’s work is notable for its engagement with social issues. His poems reflect on the complexities of living in a rapidly changing world—one that is shaped by technology, political turmoil, and cultural shifts. However, unlike many poets who critique the external world from a distance, Mondal often invites readers into his own subjective world, creating a personal yet deeply relatable exploration of contemporary struggles.

The title poem of his latest book of poems, "An Afternoon in My Mind", suggests a movement away from the physical world into a mental landscape. It hints at the idea that the afternoon, typically a time of day marked by routine and the hustle of external life, can also serve as an opportunity for deep personal reflection. In the poem, the afternoon becomes a vessel for the poet’s thoughts and emotions, bringing forth a sense of nostalgia, solitude, and contemplation.

In his poems like ‘Grandpa’s Verandah’, ‘The Rooftop’ and ‘No One to Wait at the Doorsteps’ Monda explores the theme of solitude, as he reflects on the experience of being alone with one's thoughts. In his poem ‘Mother’s Village’ is a quiet melancholy in the lines: " If you visit my mother’s village / there is nothing much to see/ There is a banyan older than my/ great-grandfather’s thoughts/ a few houses older than a few cities/ a temple older than my mother/ and boundless rice fields larger than/ the dreams of the farmers there." These lines speak to the universal feeling of loneliness that can arise during moments of introspection. In solitude, time feels elongated, yet it also passes unnoticed, much like the fleeting hours of an afternoon. The poet seems to be reflecting on how, in the absence of external distractions, one can become acutely aware of the passing of time and the solitude that accompanies it. His poems are a poignant meditation on time, solitude, and memory. Using evocative imagery and thoughtful reflections, Mondal transforms a simple afternoon into a space for introspection.

More about the poet

Poetry

/ Rubble

The books no longer smell of paper

the papers no longer smell of education

education loiters like withered leaves

and the leaves fall as tears on flames.

The rubble looks like a failed mutiny.

By the tables, chairs and books.

They seem like the skeletons of a sketchy mankind
clattering in a slapdash rhythm.

I already feel my bones beating the drums—
I don’t recognize the beat they belong to.

The poison is propagating its own agendas.
The ears are being sent into a trance.

Let me go now.
If the rubble ever shapes up into a school again
and not a museum
Call me back to this land.
/ My Mother’s Village

from An Afternoon in My Mind, Copper Colin 2022

If you visit my mother’s village
there is nothing much to see.
There is a banyan older than my
great-grandfather’s thoughts,
a few houses older than a few cities,
a temple older than my mother
and boundless rice fields larger than
the dreams of the farmers there.
There is nothing much to see
for me either. I feel I have grown
older than my maternal house.
Still if you wish to visit it
get to some rooftop on a rainy day,
listen to the rain whispering to leaves
and see how a village swings
between two jungles.
There is nothing much in it—
just that triviality seems dearer to life here—
a feather swayed by the wind.
/ Today, a Missile Struck the Head of Buddha

Gods — their names echo in spaces
where tanks traverse playgrounds.

The world moves, and the hands of clocks move farther apart.
With palms folded over our hearts, we sit inside roofless houses.
We still think about preserving our faith.

What when a missile topples the dome of a mosque?
when it rips apart the clapper of a temple bell from its mouth?

Today, a missile is stuck in the head of Buddha.
Where would the birds sit now?

Today, the rice bowls are filled with bullet shells.
How would you teach hunger to value our Gods?
/ Strange Meetings

from Karmic Chanting, Copper Colin 2022

Sometimes we run into someone
just for once in our lives

and our bones refuse
to fit inside the skin

the same way.

Plans proceed as waves
and recede as doubts.

A fleeting joy
with gnawing pangs
of apprehension

the stretch between
experience and fear

seems like the time taken by a fish
to reveal and conceal itself

in front of a fish hook.
/ Why was he shot?

He was coming back
looking down at the road
thinking about the poetry
he would write after dinner.

Perhaps he was trying to write—

You will keep looking.
Before you can think of anything
Your open eyes will be burnt.
Before you try to speak out
you will be beheaded.
/ Each Footprint is a Hope

When a child walks barefoot
each footprint is a map of a land.

When they fall in front of bullets
and their bodies are dragged on —
each dragging trail is a hope.

Their eyes show us —
the black back of every mirror
the cold grasp of ruins.

Their laughter rings like vacuum —
travelling through the bullet holes
in the walls of their houses.

Their footprints leave in their path
a vast, desolate ache
as water keeps forming
in growing coconuts
beside their houses.

The houses, roofless —
look at the sky,
the way a quiet shore
looks at the sea —
seeking a way to rest.
/ Grandpa’s Veranda

from An Afternoon in My Mind, Copper Colin 2022

Grandpa used to sit on a protrusion
of the veranda in our old house.
He used to nod subtly
to acquaintances walking by—
ploughing time—looking from across the road.

I remember him from his last days,
mostly lying on the bed he had slept on
for more than six decades.

These days I often sit in the new open balcony
of our house. A few people wave at me.
A few smile and some just walk by.

I will be sitting here till they remain
just like Grandpa still sits in his veranda
in the eyes of those who have seen him there—

an unavoidable view of places we inhabit,
an inconsolable coffin much before we depart.

Sonnet Mondal

- India -

Poetry

/ Rubble

/ My Mother’s Village

/ Today, a Missile Struck the Head of Buddha

/ Strange Meetings

/ Why was he shot?

/ Each Footprint is a Hope

/ Grandpa’s Veranda