Monday, December 9, 2013

Mistakes

Shopping
many many mistakes 
for whole life,
cheap 
small,
wrapped in silver paper
large, enormous 
mistakes.

mistakes on rainy day,
mistakes on the paisley
designed bed sheet,
many expensive 
mistaken poetries,
Loving the mask
like a face,
Mistake of wanting 
Mistake of not wanting.

Mistakes burnt
Burnt to ashes,
Ashes to ashes
Until the silence 
of eloquent dusk.

@ amiya

Friday, November 29, 2013

Mediterranean

In the scorching
midday,
if i want the 
vermilion dusky lips,
sitting on a wooden chair,
if i say,
" i want to be the godavari,
give me all your waves,
keeping your ripples hidden,"
when i stretch my hands,
offer me please
your mediterranean
sea.



Thursday, November 7, 2013

Fire fly

The fire fly

On the nomadic side of 
My Bedouin window pane
fire fly blinks,
Tranquility shines.

Inextinguishable melancholic 
Fire fly glows
In your starry starry eyes too

It is said,
a handful of fire fly
fulfills all ethereal wishes
crystallized desires
whispering secret

Some hungry poets desire
to get burnt in your eyes
where fire is insistent

Some desires
Get lost in some nowhere land
In some enchanting longing
In some dissolved dreams
In some excruciating pain
Broken into pieces

@Amiya

Thursday, October 10, 2013

Reflection

Reflection

Reflection

10 October 2013 at 13:59

On that mirror
your naked shadow
so far from the phenomenal
earth,yet
so temporally close,intimate.

like the sculpture on the palm
you are the inexplicable
language of fate,
passionate still.

come my darling
let us together
you and i
watch that rose there
in the vase silently,
where hands of frightened light
simmer and throb.

your tortured soul
your undefined curves
shiver with hopeless destiny.

@ amiya

Wednesday, October 2, 2013

Lust

Lust

2 October 2013 at 16:13
I wanted you to understand
something,
used words
heaps of alliterated words,
finally they lost navigation,
and i burnt,
my stormy last breath
quivered .

I came back to my
speechless bed.
a spiraling lust with my 
beloved night,
until
dawn appeared with 
another diseased morning.

stale night disengaged
from me, 
Unuttered words whimpered.

@ amiya

Wednesday, September 25, 2013

The Now

24 September 2013 at 13:50
Relentlessly jumping,
one,two three
jump from the cliff
high above,
down below,down very below
the 'compassionate earth '.

In between,the ETERNITY,
THE NOW
Meaningless time,
One strike on the drum
GONG.......

Nowhere a future
Nowhere a past,
Was the air refreshing ?
Any regret ? NO
Any dream ? NO
Freedom?????

Just one strike on the drum
GONG.....
The now
The Now
THE NOW....

Wednesday, September 18, 2013

Chaos

Leaves tumble,
evenings spread with memories,
I refuse to accept
perplexed,
chaos copulate
and fills the body,
lust or love?
I grasp for happiness
faces of hibiscus
which should i trust,
when myself the betrayer ?
Leaves tremble
wisdom shivers.

Amiya Chatterjee

Tuesday, July 2, 2013

Swarg Dwar

Swarga dwar

swarga dwar or gate to heaven.
Its the cremation place in Puri

Puri is a town on the sea beach, famous place
for the jagannath temple, and the sea.
Thousands of people visit this town mainly
from Bengal some religious minded 
some visit to die and be cremated in Swarga dwar , some just sit in one of those sea side 
hotel balconies to count waves, again some go there just to secretly fuck and smoke chhilum.

I am always drawn to the cremation place for 
reasons which are mostly pseudo philoosophical.
" life ends here...or life begins here "
Not too far is the sea.Waves roaring with this message.Between Swarga dwar and the Bay of bengal , inumerable " Lives scampering, talking , shouting , buying there little precious have ever seen  objects from the little shops.

But swarga dwar  itself is one of the dirtiest place I have everseen.
People leave there dear ones turned into ashes
return home to eat play and love. Here Dogs , rats, the beggars,and (The chandals, who help the body to burn fully or half burnt) Dogs do the rest of the last rites.Torn dirty clothes, broken  earthen pots howl throughout the nights and the sea drown their howling songs.
Only I stand there and stare to look for the answer of the question I never ask.

Sunday, May 5, 2013

Gaya revisited

....so I left for gaya again.Thistime it was not for emancipation  in life but something more mysterious than this life.
I am particularly interested in the Life after ....and Gaya ,not buddha gaya,the prehistoric Gaya .
After we reached the station we we were almost carried away by a storm of delirious emotion  to a spot in Gaya ,covered with dark trees  over some kind of  Hill .

A strange looking face of a man ,pretended  to be waiting an said " Aha ..Babuji...you come atlast...I was waiting for you for days , months even years. Come this way. Please sit down for a while " He pointed to a bench in a kind of roadside tea stall . We sat down. Binita's teeth were chattering in some kind oof apprehension.
She  was definitely frightened by now because of this strange man's look. The eyes were deep red and and sunken. He was tall and slightly stooping.His hands were filthy.
After the Tea he asked us to follow him. We strted to climb the  hill through dark trees and aa massive Dusk. While walking he told us the 
reasons people visit this " NO MAN"S LAND .
 People go there to perform the last rites. But it is of different kind that are performed in benares, Gangotri , Puskar etc.
It is performed as the Hindus believe to  " Free " the spirits of Dead relatives.

But here  people come to perform the last rites all people who weredead for unknown reason , unknown places, accidental death, whose relatives never got the trace of the  Bodies.They just vanished  and their spirits are forever thirsty for a drop of water.Those longing spirits come to this place for salvation from an uncanny  bondage.
 There is some kind of ghastly atmosphere , Birds dont call , animals dont howl , Trees are still,.
Finally we reached the top of the hill ,we could see a temple , inside there was  some God's image it could be a Devil too. Our guide stared at us for a long time  and said just " Who " ?
I understood the question .My friend was shaking in fear and clutched my hand and said" amiyo da lets g back. I am nnot feeling well at all"
We started to run,through the trees and shrubs.
We heard roars of laughter behind. Continuous echoeing laughter and strange sounds through the trees sounded like the Whines.
Were they the whines of Thirsty spirits who still long for someone to go there and liberate. ?

Couldnt Buddha liberate them who resides just the next door ??

Friday, March 22, 2013

Middle pages

There in the breast of Godavaari
two invincible pages float
,scratches bleed
deep wounds weep
That girl said
" I shall never leave" but she left,
Lily das exhausted me ,
and after we dozed off
she whispered 
" lets run away" She did 
But I couldnt
Elizabeth on a narrow single bed 
pretended to sleep with her orgasm,
,I cremated her in the 
goldersgreen cemetary,
Thousand birds sang the fifth symphony.
Snigdha  counted the money 
after each configuration 
which her Husband couldnt give.
That little spiritually masochist girl from Delhi
Inbetween her Insomniac groans repeated
swore, " Show me the way"
 finally she lost her way or got buried in her 
thousnd words.

These and many other  adventurous sighs
floated  with  Godavari waves.
She brings out those middle pages
only to have some whiff of Fragrance .
Her eyes wet, her scabbard lips smile.

@ amiya

Saturday, January 26, 2013


I don't know how many souls I have.
I've changed at every moment.
I always feel like a stranger.
I've never seen or found myself.
From being so much, I have only soul.
A man who has soul has no calm.
A man who sees is just what he sees.
A man who feels is not who he is.

Attentive to what I am and see,
I become them and stop being I.
Each of my dreams and each desire
Belongs to whoever had it, not me.
I am my own landscape,
I watch myself journey—
Various, mobile, and alone.
Here where I am I can't feel myself.

That's why I read, as a stranger,
My being as if it were pages.
Not knowing what will come
And forgetting what has passed,
I note in the margin of my reading
What I thought I felt.
Rereading, I wonder: "Was that me?"
God knows, because he wrote it.


I Don't Know How Many Souls I Have
Fernando Pessoa
I don't know how many souls I have.
I've changed at every moment.
I always feel like a stranger.
I've never seen or found myself.
From being so much, I have only soul.
A man who has soul has no calm.
A man who sees is just what he sees.
A man who feels is not who he is.

Attentive to what I am and see,
I become them and stop being I.
Each of my dreams and each desire
Belongs to whoever had it, not me.
I am my own landscape,
I watch myself journey—
Various, mobile, and alone.
Here where I am I can't feel myself.

That's why I read, as a stranger,
My being as if it were pages.
Not knowing what will come
And forgetting what has passed,
I note in the margin of my reading
What I thought I felt.
Rereading, I wonder: "Was that me?"
God knows, because he wrote it.


I Don't Know How Many Souls I Have
Fernando Pessoa