Monday, September 17, 2012

The centre

by Amiya Chatterjee on Friday, 17 December 2010 at 11:26 ·
The source of your joy 
is your laughter,
the source of your laughter is 
your joy

Come my darling
come  with a cup of tea
sit here quietly
sit here reverentially
sit here silently.
Be centred,with the centred cup

The whole universe now 
with the billion dancing proton
rotate  with you 
slowly sleepily illusory, futuristic.

This moment my darling 
centred you 
centred the cup
with an ivalluable NOW
invalluable impermanent life
silent ...still


by Amiya Chatterjee on Wednesday, 2 February 2011 at 11:02 ·
Put your veil on my face
cover it with you sunrise
cover it with your sunset.
The absolute solitude brings absolute peace 
to my peace.

I am banished 
in my intellectual morbidity

You ask again 
" Why ...Why  "
the selfless sun sets down

The universe sinks
in our tearful eyes 
darkness engulfs.
I dont wish to see 
the mutilated earth any more.

Please cover my eyes 
with your dense dark hair.

Let us now live  eternally partd
with eternal absurdity.



by Amiya Chatterjee on Wednesday, 16 February 2011 at 10:48 ·
Perhaps you are , Perhaps I am
Perhaps I am not that
Any one.
May be
I am that road built
with some diabolical thoughts.

perhaps my poetry is an echoe,
one can hear in the obscene languages 
of a crowd.

perhaps you and i are
the hungry ghost
copulating  in emptiness.
Then enlightened
in inconsequential emptiness.

Our immaterial offsprings
find a trace
of absurd life,then, in their living .

Middle way

by Amiya Chatterjee on Tuesday, 19 April 2011 at 13:52 ·
You said stay in the middle
stay between life and death........Fast asleep
Stay in between day and depth
 Between light and
between Union and detachment......tearful
Between emptyness and fullness.....Ecsatatic
Between creation and destruction .....contemplative
Between the Eyebrows ....... Resigned

I  lie in the middle for so long...
Yet why does your mutilated smile 
inbetween  two souls dishevell the ocean's  heart !!!

Flamboyant Beggar

by Amiya Chatterjee on Friday, 31 August 2012 at 14:08 ·
When we embraced
day after day
night after night
we thought
our love will last .
We thought
our kisses would
sanctify our soul.

Then life was responsibility
Life was duty
life was apathetic bed sheet...

The embrace appeared shameful
kisses appeared venomous,
Love staggered away.

Wednesday, September 12, 2012

The stone God

by Amiya Chatterjee on Thursday, 20 October 2011 at 11:49 ·
That fine autumn morning
this primitive stone god,
with sculptured eyes looked 
at this virgingirl 

To his feet she was  offered.
He raised her to her feet
kissed her jasmine lips,
She bled.

She full of tears 
bathed in flames and 
the nightingle wept,
she whispered 
nenu meeku premistu nanu....

the stone god howled
suffered the magnificent ecstasy.
He wanted no more than her two hands.

Inside the  Music.

Behind that vermilion veil
inside a stravinsky 's concert
she lives,
She had never been described
well enough,
other than  a crescent smile
she had never been discovered.

She kills
when she laughs
the tremors in her voice whimpers
like an antique violin,
Her barbaric eyes glisten.

On her fertile pastures
on her  tender rocks
inside her secret magnolia caves
Shamanic drums beat with rhythm
all nightlong.

late at night she  holds me close
presses her lips on mine  
She sobs
and she stabs me then,
leaves me half dead.

Her eyes will return
free again.
Inside the music.

Malinee's Love

by Amiya Chatterjee on Sunday, 6 March 2011 at 12:52 ·
( This morning I happened to remember Malinee. and a poem 
 I wrote about her . Some  phrases here  are untranslatable as 
the words are very culture biased. The poem is rather long and I shall not blame my readers 
to abandon it half way through .)

Malinee never loved me
malinee loved my friend Moloy.
five years ago malinee
married Moloy.
For five long years I gave  
my winter , my spring , and
 my summer.
I used to weave the veil of the moonlight
and  cover her face.
I then was the well preserved fossil
in a glass jar on my desk.
I was calm like the water from 
winter snow.

Last year Maline came back
to her father's house next door 
the end of the lane.
Vacant sky in her heart.
She came back like the 
unheard pure sound
to her house.
Malinee never loved me 
She Did love Moloy

 Malinee sat by my  indisposed mother 
and learnt to cook foods
She learnt how much salt or pepper
to add in my meals.
 My white Kurta ( Punjabi .beng)
got a fresher life at the touch of Malinee.
The bed sheet used to be tidy and fresh.

My mother went to her heavenly abode
few days later.
I being th next of kin 
 had to do the last rite.
One morning I started to cook my own food,
 ( Hobishyi ..Beng)
I felt a soft touch on my back.
I turned and saw Malinee
with the rainstorm hair and a most 
ordinary sari.
Like the winter sun rolling silently 
on the courtyard
 she whspered "  That is my job ,
You go and take rest.
When I finish I shall call you"

Malinee lost everything
But did she  love Moloy 
or  me ?

The Tables

by Amiya Chatterjee on Wednesday, 1 February 2012 at 13:50 ·
It was a gift, 
A butterfly  coloured green sari,
Jhooma chose to hang herself
from the ceiling fan on one 
" Darbari" night.
The twentyone year old 's body  shuddered,
Then stilled,
The little note under  paperweight
on the table shivered and shrieked,
" No one is responsible  for my death,
Ma, you will be my ma 
life after life, after life...
Do not let Baba touch me."

The boy 
in between the deep theories of
Economic Intelligence in the cochingclass
searched  in vain 
towards the empty lane,
Then a hopeless  mournful sigh.

The mother  who lost her first child 
only three  years ago , a victim of Thalasemia,
Froze with her tears of blood,
Lastnights birthday treat 
stood untouched  on the kichen table,
  Red antsoldiers marching around.

The cursed Father Rocked and rocked  and
went on repeating again  and again
from the tables of life......
" Two one za Two
Two two z four....
Fathers , Fathers dont do it
Dont rebuke your unruly child
Do not ...
Two one za Two
Two z Two......
Let her go to another repeat of 
Multiplication tables.
Or be cursed."

(On the basis of a news item . A father used to 
rebuke his daughter for returning late from
coaching classes .The daughter hanged herself )

A Rainy day

by Amiya Chatterjee on Wednesday, 15 June 2011 at 18:30 ·
It is raining today
 It is raining in Galiff street
In chhatawwala gali and 
on the byelane where you live,
Incessant rain.
I am sad,
old faces appear
painful memories and some 
warmth in the confluence,
Miya Mallhar  and 
the intense vermilion desire
to put my lips on your crimson lake
to whisper , Ami tomakay Bhalo bashi"
Its raining ,,

And you ?
the large window facing that banana tree 
you let go of your mind.
Madhu babu with his broken 
passing by. 
But My priyotoma (Tr. Sweetheart)
dont you know 
Rainy day is the day of Union ?
The silent fireflies of passion 
flicker in our hearts ?

( This is a poem I  wrote and read during one of  Rabindranath's
Birthday celebration.Originally it  was written in Bangla)


Rabindranath, I have  written a poem
for you on your birthday,
a skeletal  naked poetry.
I am sorry
I couldnt write a gorgeously dressed  poem.
My poem is like a gangraped  vietnamese 
thirteen year old child, 
the casualty of a war.
Rabindranath, You didnt see that,
I did, she was my daughter.

When six yearold  girl was doused with petrol
and set fire
and her naked scream  made even the 
asphalts ashamed,I wept with her in my poem.
Rabindranath, You didnt see that,
I did

In a hospital bed  on a white bed sheet 
she  was lying,
Thre was not asingle spot on her body
where her mother could  put her embalming  lips.
Rabindranath, you didnot see
her burnt butterfly lips,
I did 
she too was my child ,
My poem is about that child and the 
Grieving mother.

In the land of Gita Upanishad
a girl child is  hurled  by men 
My poem is about the mother who
cried in helpless rage.
Rabindranath You didnt see that.
I did

How a single bomb destroy , and maim
the population of a nation generation 
after generations
I did see that My poetry is about those mothers
who gave birth to disfigured babies
after long expectancy.
Rabindranath You didnt see
You didnt hear their helpless howl.

 Rabindranath one Jaliwana bag made you angry
in protest you
refused to accept a Royal  honour,
we thank you.

In a crowded Harrison road junction
one mother was stripped naked
by her sons who danced around her 
in ecstatic laughter,
Rabindranath ,You didnt see that
I did ,
 She was my mother.

 Rabindranath, You cried so many times
in your life,
Rabindranath you made us cry
to heal ourselves,
You wrote beautiful poems
Poems of joy, of bliss of peace
You wrote poems of supreme consciousness
We Thank you 
We thank you for the great honour 
you brought to our nation

For all these
I present you today
a fleshless
On your birthday
Like ·  ·  · Share · Delete


A piece of time
and  much ...much
ecstatic silence.
 I live with low vitality and
a distorted  background.
I look at you.

In my bed a hesitant night waiting,
under my feet
my shadow melts.
Tears sing on  Anna purna Ghat *
 a devastated past  froth 

in my coffee cup in Kardomah, 
Blank stare,
In the hollow of the  boat
in Mediteranian,
I am fast asleep.
Drunken sailors assault
the tired singer
singing like broken disc

Time still
or time goes round and round
like a constipated bitch.



@amiyo             * Annapurna Ghat... a bathing ghat
                              on the bank of Ganga
Like ·  ·  · Share · Delete

     Words ...Words...Words

On that twenty first stereotypical  night
you said nothing new,
Like that oily pillow 
some more lies again.

you kept  yourself half naked 
behind your words 
much repeated dialogues
of  drama,
some soliloque, some half uttered moans.

I sat by  the waters of GOMOTI
and cried or laughed
with disfigured face.
They were mistakes.
Yes, they were.

You heard  the cry as usually again,
 and again you said,
"Why do you laugh when you 
feel like  crying ?


A Birth

by Amiya Chatterjee on Sunday, 27 May 2012 at 15:34 ·
By the river Barakar
Jhilik's pregnant mother
clasped a branch of a tree,
A tree full of burnt umber flowers
She forced herself downward
and Jhilik was born 
onto the lap of red soil.
compassionate earth

Jhilik was born in the land of rivers
in the land of trees,
where praying mantis  
dreams and dances
after each  birth.

Jhilik bcame the land 
from then on 
Rain started to fall silently,
Magpies started jabbering
blackbirds cried anxiously.

Barakar with her amber hue
danced around the trees,
and Jhilik's mother
sang a lullaby pressing the newborn
 to her breast.
Life oozed . 


 Charushila  knows 
when she is going to die,
She knows with her
dark intuition.

Her earthly "matters"
penetrates her interiors
slowly... softly
she clasps in her fist
that letter 
with no address,
By the way side
a wreckless boy 
is hanging on the branch of a 
Willow  tree.

Eternal Debdas
Eternal Parvoty
Rolls in laughter.