The Kiss of Death

night

Image courtesy: Google images

 

 

A tender, heartbreaking night
etched on life’s uneven canvas.
An unblemished face, swept away
with the moon’s tide, her last whisper
Lighter than a feather’s breath, 
she surrenders herself to her last lullaby
An undying flame as the silent womb
Of the mother bleeds open, 
trying to pluck every single star 
they had counted together.

In between the crushing moans of the night
the caustic smell of the hospital room,
sadly stumbling on shattered dreams,
Her heart, for once, did resuscitate…
Fairy tale murmurs, myriad hues, 
Countless rainbows smoldering
In the embers, engulfing twirled childhood…

In the crematorium, the charred meat 
Of her body, chipped edges of bones
and brain, lingering, one last thin scream 
Looking wayward, hungry for kisses,
the habitual bliss of midday meals, and wildflowers.

All Rights Reserved. Lopa Banerjee. January 21, 2015

 

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Lunar Eclipse

lunar eclipse

“Was it the twinkle of the faint star, Or the eclipsed moonbeam”

The pale moon ushers,

Freckled with dim scars.

The dark night, shrouded by a frosted sheath,

Readies for an earthly carnival.

Under the ashen sky, cars honk,

Bodies huddled together, bemused, waiting

Ensnared by the night’s girth.

Was it the twinkle of the faint star,

Or the eclipsed moonbeam,

Waxing and waning, taking in their mismatched steps

Their sugar-coated small talks?

We have long recycled our fairy tales,

The city beeps in customized ringtones.

Somewhere, from the night’s dark trenches,

Pixie dust gathers around the bodies, on the cars

Getting ready to roll down the streets.

The pixie dust, dotting our eyes,

Lingering on our lips, swirling, surrendering.

 

Note: Written today, September 27, while witnessing the marvels of a lunar eclipse in a local state park in Omaha, Nebraska. An event that took place after more than three decades and turned us to awed spectators for a brief moment or two.

Image source: Morguefile.com

Found Love: The Story of a Book

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My monthly column at B’Khush, a slice of the bittersweet days of my childhood and the towering presence of Enid Blyton in it. My readers may have wondered why I don’t talk much about my father in my essays, stories and poems. This one is for my Father, my lost childhood days, and also for my daughters who have enlivened the child within me with their own bedtime stories. I hope parts of the story resonates with my readers and hope while reading, they would understand the need and urgency of mine to find the child within myself, hidden in an unseen nook of my mind.

http://bkhush.com/dev/content/scattered-pearls-found-love-story-book-0

Child of Delight

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Mithi, my true wealth. Pic credit: Lopa Banerjee

 

If I could fill your life with the serenity and magic of fairy tales,
I sure would.
If I could transport you to a true magic kingdom
Of angels and nymphs,
I sure would.
I wish I could carpet your path with roses and
The mirth of sweet spring.
I wish I could give you all this and much more.
But as I whisper your sweet name today,
Just know that life will not always
Sparkle like a diamond.
From your paradise of innocence,
Life will, by and by, suck you to a domain
Of wonder and sin,
Which won’t be magical anymore.
Till then, my child of delight,
I sing of the spring with you in my arms,
Whilst the rough winds shake and ruffle
The brushstrokes of the fairy land
We have painted together.

Footnote: some lines written for my elder daughter, Mithi on her fourth birthday, November 14, 2012. Retrieved from Facebook 🙂

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