The Forbidden

It’s surely one of those days when she bites her own lips to taste that fertile blood,
Swirling down generations of feminine waste.
It’s surely one of those nights when the moonbeams of her breasts
Are a red, sticky glue taped to the quirks of patriarchy yet again.
It’s surely one of those days when her poetry and art have drowned in
A bottomless pit of her own making,
And she fails to make a home out of the world that she sucks fill throttle.
It’s surely one of those failed poems which she sucks in one of her veins
Like a faulty blood transfusion,
Or else, why would it spill over the bloodmoon of her naked body in the washroom, and perturb her kith and kin,
Women and men who would rather love her to be a hired womb, spread her legs in between cycles,
Take in a man’s lust and seed and emit
The seedlings as newborns meshed with her own blood and mucus
And then smile, coy and righteous
When those of her kith and kin glorify her tomfoolery of surrendering?
It’s surely one of those nights when she stares at her stark body, the sagging abdominal muscles, the aching pelvic bones, the poetry of her stretch marks and wonders if her body was only a dubious shrine of parochial needs.
It’s surely one of those days when she strived to be something more than a creeper in obeisance with the darkness and idiocy of myths muttered,
Recycled, from the junkyards of unquestioned faith that they call ‘religion’.
It’s surely one of those nights when she knows she doesn’t give a damn
Whether she is a woman, a wife, a mother, a slut or a poet or an artisan.
She can be all of the above, or none,
For that matter, she can laugh away the fucking bullshit of labels hurled at her,
Falling out of her life in quick succession like the milk teeth of her childhood, for giving way to her adult grins.
All she can do in a slender, lustful night like this when her failed poetry wants to enter her like a nude, impatient lover
Is to lead him, deeper and deeper
In her dark, inner trenches and then,
Die out, together with him,
In unnamed kisses and smothering.

All Rights Reserved. Lopa Banerjee. July 11, 2017

Saath Saath: The Longing, The Despair, The Closure

Note: My poetic tribute, dedicated to the soulful ghazals sung by the celebrated musical couple Jagjit Singh and Chitra Singh jee

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Image Source: Learningandcreativity.com

 

I don’t know how the kohl-smeared nights would dissolve

Into the fresh dawns, squinting into the day, when your voices

In the unison of duets, would waft in the lingering, dark silence

Of a bedroom with crinkled bedsheets and the recycled language

Of the two-in-one stereo, my unrequited wants, cocooned in

The sweet, fleshy cracking of your ghazals.

I knew not, at the end of those nameless siestas, when my senses,

Handcuffed, trudged through those uncertain mazes, how I would

Unwrap myself, lapping up your waves, losing myself in your shores.

“Tumko dekha toh iye khayal aayaa, zindagee dhoop tum ghanaa saayaa”…

 

I only knew that in my first love’s eyes, I was a washed out night raaga

From the flesh of your moonlight’s swirling melody, a raaga that

Would come back to you again, with my cheap tears of a love,

A tight embrace gone awry. I only knew that in my eyes clamped shut

In that clumsy bedroom, all by myself, I would hum, together with you,

“Iye tera ghar iye mera ghar/kiseeko dekhna ho gar/to pehle aake maang le

Meri nazar teri nazar…”, feeling my rib cage, my bones and the throb

Of my man’s Adam’s Apple, brush against the twilight music of a love nest,

A nest where our smudged syllables would one day, give in to stark, dead silence.

 

You both knew the trail, didn’t you, the trail of quivering, lovelorn hearts

Who hummed along, biting deep into the flesh of those lyrics in symphony?

Did you know the smog, seeping through your incandescent tunes,

As you sang, every strain filling through your own cracks, your own pores

While you couldn’t rain together anymore?

Did we all know, us, the sagging vines, hanging around

Your bestselling albums, that even melodies could gag,

In life’s unmarked road where you clasped tight

your tragedy, your only route to break free?

 

I come back to those nights in nameless, grey spirals, your ghazals

The cinnamon wants traipsing around them still, rolling slowly

In my senses, like a dream, forbidden, interrupted,

Which might make a lover out of me, yet again.

jagjit-singh-chitra-singh-us-mod-se-shuru-kare-phir-yeh-zindgi

The Unforgettable Duo. Image Courtesy: MusicMyLife

Also, visit this link to listen to the soulful melodies by this classic duo:

 

Dear Poetry

love_bleeding

Dear Poetry, have you left me, deserted me for good? So many scars, so much of venom puked, so many unwritten lines, so many lumps in the throat, not yet gulped down. My stories are drowning me in a pitch-dark, bottomless pit every day. The thorns of prosaic truths scraping the inner core in merciless, relentless bouts.

My life, the most plain travails, shut unceremonious between the folds of recycled beds, dark, drab parlours and the missing music of the dining nook, wants to reach out to you, crossing the uncertain miles of the distant spray of juvenile mirth, crossing that little slope of the setting sun where you had sprung in my arms once like a truant, confessional kid.

My eyes sting, I seek the old, weeping willow tree where I had found you once, stroking hard at my blank, surreptitious womanly canvas. Come back my ‘wings of poesy’, let us find each other yet again, and hide from the world in a crushing, sinister curl.
Come back and penetrate me, spill all your juices inside of me, as the barren woman wants to be fertile, all over again!

 

The River Dark, The River Deep

The rivulet, the gushing stream bounced and swayed

Like a colicky infant. pic of housewife

Didn’t I love you, sleeping in your banks, pure?

Hiding myself so deftly in your little pockets of silence?

Why then, today, when I ran to touch you, hot, raw, burning,

You ran away instead, fearing my coagulated blood,

my frozen tears, my milk stuck on your door-frame, my breath,

shot up, in spurts, that has known you like the grandma’s old tale,

Like the lone, dazzling truth?

 

Come, enter through my rich brown, derelict doors,

Still open for you. Settle slowly amid the thickets,

Soaking in the smudged, docile light setting in,

The skyline of my wants still eager, firm with primroses,

Brown, yet not dying still, with music, sharp, yet blurry,

The details obscured, yet the pleading, the little lightning

Robust, plump, hammering.

 

Will you burn it, like the rest of my thwarted dreams galore,

The pregnant ashes of my sighs

that once I had closed your palms with?

Like the stubborn, wailing infant, eyes rolling, fingers tossed,

You had wanted small tufts of the dried, golden grass

Growing mammoth, fleshy, in a mountainous pile.

Today, between my calloused palms, the ashes dwindle,

And let out an air, musky, choking, yet again.

 

The verdant spring, the primroses, the half-baked love songs

Burn me like the old, bloody embers, the fungi strong, shadowy

Smeared all over like a beauty in continuum.

Come over, do not run, what is there to hide?

Lie down, flat, on my back, as I float on your scalding waters,

Doused with the dark grey of our self-same songs.

Summer Rain

National Poetry Writing Month

Writing prompt: Summer rain

summer_rain_by_sugarock99-d2y7w1c

Image source: Summer rain by SachaKalis on DeviantArt sachakalis.deviantart.com

 

Blisters and burns, achingly trail
Through the soft inner molds of me.
Simmering, trying to reach for
The night sky, a canvas
Dancing with want.

Come to me, caress the folds
Of my lips, my April skin,
A pitter patter song on my roof
And let us rain,
Silver liquid drops.

We crawl in and out
Of rooms, the damp walls
Sing a lullaby
Amid the squeaking and
Wild cacophony.

I know not why
I dip my wings,
Treading through this
Wild, momentary anarchy.

Let me lay bare,
Soak in
This mad song of
The summer rain.

Lopa Banerjee. April 2015

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 Tanpura

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A short chapter from my dream project, my first memoir that is yet unpublished, finds a home today at Cafe Dissensus, a journal published from New York. The chapter, ‘The Tanpura’ which is a story about my childhood, is based on a sudden awakening, a sudden revelation that I had at that tender age, involving my mother and her compromises. I had started it as a writing prompt that I worked on in a coursework named ‘experiments in creative nonfiction’. Later, I went ahead and developed the story and now it is a chapter of my memoir. I have toiled for quite some time to find a home for this piece, and now that it has found one, I dedicate this to the loving memory of my mother whom I lost to a sudden stroke in August 2013. 

Do read the full piece in Cafe Dissensus and leave your comments:

http://cafedissensusblog.com/2014/04/16/the-tanpura/