A Birth

by Amiya Chatterjee on Sunday, 27 May 2012 at 15:34 ·

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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 . 

     Eternal

 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.

       The Prayer Wheel

Like your breath

the prayer wheel goes 

round and round

and round,

Dervish dances 

with ecstatic emptiness

round and round.

Particles , forms

the suns,the moons

the oceans

hopes 

hopelessness

joys and tears,

go round and round

tied centrifugally

as the slender twig tied to the

ancient monk. 

No beginning , No end

Only going round, Going round 

Like the prayer wheel.

End of Morning raga

Non essential love survives 

in friction,

" Lakhsman Rekha"

multiplies Loneliness

day by day

day by day

That word is not said

the day comes to an end,

Heart bleeds with  Bhupali raga,

At the sunset

emptiness spreads to the horizon.

That word is not heard,

Night ends hand in hand 

with Bhairabi raga,

Tearful humming goes to sleep.

agonising " WAIT "

lives with hope

with the fragrant morning air.

Nibaron Chokkotti

has givenup writing poems these days,

Instead 

He watches telly serial every evening

with his  wife and the maidservant.

When in every house in the neighourhood

Conchshells are blown by the housewives,

Nibaron Chokkotti watches

Serials of passionate love scenes,

Or loud quarrels

or fighting with whines .

AlokanandaTook that oily poetry copybook,

promising to publish his poems.

She did publish them But

Not in his name BUT HER OWN NAME.

The nextdoor grocer gave  Nibaron 

a paper bag for Two rupees worth Bayleaf.

Nibaron found her very passionate poem

On that paper,where Nibaron  

was begging for a Kiss

and where Alakananda smiled 

and said 

Dhat......

Memory

 

Memory
Buried under the chasm of your mind
all those regrettable wastes!
 Where would you run my darling
from the memories of sunset  ?
and some vermilion sunrise
your animal close up,
Or that reflection  of surprising agony
of nearness
face to face
Where do you think  you would hide your tears ?
We all would return
with the procession of corpses
and their memories
Their groans
Their grunts
to the disfigured graveyards,
Wouldnt we  ??