When Memories Rain

 

I don’t know when the rains started to bleed.

A taste of salty pining, a dash of

Peppered moments and memories, dancing together

Their bodies, clasped, loosening, melting, blurring.

I don’t know when my clay hands composed you,

Mold after mold, structure, shape, dimension

Nestled in the embrace of these coiled fingers,

Your cinnamon breath, blowing its fragments,

Mingling with my own, tearing me open,

The gash of my wounds, alive, and trembling still.

I don’t know when the smell of long lost love

Stark dead, ghost-white, wafts along

The interstate where the night reveals

And sea winds soar and sing, the smell

Of burnt lips entwined, slicing through

The raging night, earnest, shadowy, whispering.

I don’t know when the downpour stopped,

The blood, the tears, the salt tickling me,

Pulling me within, deeper still,

My crust and core, rising, floating

In the debris of the days, lost.

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The Forgotten Swan Songs

 

fairy tale

Image source: SurLaLune Fairy Tales Blog. Surlalunefairytales.blogspot.com

 

Rippling in melancholy melodies,
Washing past the jagged edges
Of my furtive calf-love,
My girlhood days breathe in a little nook
Of oblivion, a passing phase,
Forgotten pearls, scratched and resurfaced
In the waves of my kitchen songs,
Nestled in embalming domesticity.

My days, recycling and monitoring
At every turn, I thought my swan songs were long dead.
But a quicksilver flash of torn off petals
Wave at me in the mirror.

In their hushed fog, their half-finished stories
I feel, that their contours are running
Deeper than my brain had thought.

Footnotes: My poetic attempt to celebrate, search for, bring out the scattered pearls of my girlhood days. The days of my fumbling with hormones and love songs, the days of my secretly spun girl stories, the days of my sunshine dreams and the trophy of attaining puberty. Created and developed today while hosting an online poetry workshop for ‘The Woman Inc Poetry Project’. Thank you, Pooja Garg Singh and all other friends at TWIPP!

 

The Drunken Lovers’ Song

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Image source: Lopa Banerjee

For all those short wintry days, sheathed under

The soft blanket of the setting sun, they met,

Under the misty halo of twilight.

Their hands clasped, their tongues tied

Under the spell of the faint, blinkings rays

Of the hibernated sun,

Zipped by the pale, urgent moonlight.

They met, they wandered, withered with the moon,

In their own planet, love, the only language of the living.

 

The sky, a euphoria of lofty colors

Threw sparks upon their faces.

They looked up, and down,

Coiled in each other’s faces, sitting

Rapt beside a drunken, luscious river,

Counting baby faces in the translucent water bodies.

The faces, playful, indolent, unbound, never knowing

The toxins, foul smells, the ground zero of the city.

They laugh, rolling, rippling, flowing,

Tiny petals of music, poetry and love,

Fingers kissing dewdrops, evolving

Into a saga of childhood love,

Twinkling dim, blinking out, withering away.

In a tangle of two souls, spread out

Like a flowered skirt, the drunken lovers

Surrendered their lavender blossoms.

The stale night whispered, venom sprung

Out of the earth’s crust.

And while the green pastures waxed and waned

With the pale, cold moon,

Deadly ghosts spitting misery, trampled over

Their flesh, bones and honeyed dreams.

The drunken lovers and the moon, consumed in embrace

Quivered, fluttered wings  beneath the deadening cacophony.

The river called them out in ripples

And the unwavering smell of love.

And they gripped, grouched in the dark planet,

Love, the only language of the living.

(C) Lopa Banerjee. October 23, 2014

The Revisiting

Notes for the readers: An elegy of a lost love, or a few lines dedicated to the wayward memories of a long lost relationship. A random love poem, yet again.

An old love flaunted itself in half-written letters.

An old love buried in the slippery sands of time.

An old love puffed fiercely, flashed sugary smiles,

Clenched at me tight, and loosened,

Cried in long, ragged sobs.

An old love finds me in smoke, sips of coffee and yawning.

An old love comes to visit me, his face ghostly and blurred.

I take him in and we begin to talk,

Greet each other in discreet, playful nods.

We talk in shadows and scribbling,

In warm monotones and the equation of rhetoric.

We’ve rubbed off awkward kisses, wayward fantasies

With the palm of our hands.

Our delicate, birdlike buffoonery slapped hard

By a slate of routine chores.

A scrapbook of lost words careen around the room.

My hands, stretch out to him in stray lines

Azure blue, green, purple shades of calf love.

Keystrokes of a lost harmony, fading, resounding,

Crossing paths in a dim, complicated dream,

Melting, wafting, diminishing again.

An old love is a long smear on my whiteboard face,

In twilight memories, summons me

In anonymous blinks and glittering.

I watch him from afar, lanky, white-haired and lost,

Leave the room with the faint odor of our used up days.

 

 

 

 

Sweet Surrender: Elegy of Bruised Love

ImageImage

Snapshots of a poem of mine published by 13th Floor Magazine, a bi-annual literary journal produced by the Writer’s Workshop at the University of Nebraska at Omaha. This particular poem has appeared in Autumn 2013, Issue 1 of the magazine.  The snapshots are taken from the Kindle version of the magazine downloaded in my Tablet, so readers, please bear with the picture quality.

The poem was originally written in 2007 and edited before submission to the magazine in 2013. Sharing with you the lines once again:

“Sweet, sweet surrender,
There are scars upon my heart when I come back to your arms
You like to prick them, stand still, and admire my integrity..
That you know for sure,
Sweet is the flower that rests on the thorns!

In darkest waters do I sleep
With the sweaty jostle of clumsy streets,
Come to me with your scarlet lips and crimson wrists,
Together let us weep crystal tears buried in shadows deep.

Your heart be the candlelight, your soul be the gold
That chains my life with unspoken sins galore;
So let me bleed, and not restore,
Sweet, sweet surrender.

Here do I come to seek the spring
In the luscious, flowing rivers of your arms–
Arms that resist to heal.
Fruits of much grief they are, surely emblems of more,
Together we have died and bled of love,
Sweet, sweet surrender.

Come, let us melt in deep, turquoise lakes and azure skies,
Pass away quietly in lullabies of our slumber.
The inferno of our pain will wander in the winds,
Carrying secret breaths resting in shades of amber…
Sweet, sweet surrender.

I think of mistakes and redemption lying in their graves
And we, with our pains, are thoroughly blessed.
The greatest ashes of our shared wounds lie

In those tombs of the yesteryears.

So let us die and rise the same

For yet another resurrection of pain.

Sweet, sweet surrender.”

P.S. Those interested can buy the August 2013 issue of 13th Floor Magazine at Amazon.com:

http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B00EQT19S8/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=B00EQT19S8&linkCode=as2&tag=krisrixauth-20

The Other Self of Chaos is Love

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Note for readers: A prose-poem on love, my delightful daughters and cooked food.

If you want to know more about our home, pierce your feet in the stained carpets sticky with remnants of hot chocolate, chewed edges of ‘mickey mouse’ stickers and the foam of carpet shampoo. You can observe, over the next few hours, the unruly symphony of baby voices, the happy kitchen spatula cooking fried fish, the robotic stillness of the laptop, the prosaic murmuring of adult voices. You can see tears, bickering and grief, returning through the back door, like a hungry, homeless dog.

Let your feet soak the dust and dirt of the unkempt rooms. Let your fingers touch the walls smeared with crayons and pencils. Let your hands touch the unwashed linens, feel their crinkled corners. Do not still lose your mind. You are the uninvited visitor. You will know our little moments of disruption and calm. Wait until you listen to the rocking and weeping of tiny bodies melting into sweet dreams while you know, they will breathe safely inside the womb of an earth plagued with danger and pain. They will breathe, until the world outside will suck them, into ruthlessness and sin.

Welcome to the den of midnight movies and spicy fish curries. Wait until you feel the rhymes of our speech and the melody of lullabies. Amid the chaos and running around and the sputtering of hot oil and cooked food, you will see lovers. They will be there in the room, kissing beside the windowsill, looking at the pale moonlight in the frozen winter sky. They will find you, threaten to cover you like the dark fog rolling in. They will see your prying eyes, staring at their stained walls and carpets, unwashed bedroom linens, unclean kitchen, overloaded dishwashers and the stack of unfinished laundry. They will sense your cautious queries, your voyeuristic pleasures and curiosity.
Let them revel in their own, imperfect world of chaos and love. While you step out of this world, bid adieu to the noisy footsteps, to the rhythms and sounds, to the stains and dust that adorn the home.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ode to Sweet Dreams and Fairy Tales

Author’s Note: For my daughters, the apples of my eyes, Srobona (Mithi) and Sharanya (Rimli), a small gift from Mamma on their birthday.

Cinderella and Sleeping Beauty waltz with their prince charmings

In the painted carnival of cherry blossoms and butterflies,

In the wonderland of your dreams, sweet dreams,

Every night, starry starry night, where I behold you in your silky slumber–

With tender kisses and cuddles,

I seal my enduring trust in your tiny bodies–

My mind, a wanderer in the dark, lustful world,

Yet craving to embrace your sweet nothings….

Soon the wonderland of your dreams will fade away,

The mud and soil of this giant world will surround you,

Howl in your ears to grow up, let go.

Let there still be room for the serenity and magic of your dreamland,

Let the fragrance of human love and life be yours’ still,

In the vain world where you may open your eyes tomorrow.