For ‘A Doll’s House’ and For all Women

 

My belated and small offering on the World Poetry Day, loosely inspired by the Tideling poetic form created by the very young and talented poet Daipayan Nair from India, dedicated to Henrik Ibsen,a-dolls-house-gvrxgpko.n5g his phenomenal play ‘A Doll’s House’, and to all of us women folks.

Good, good heavens,
My beautiful, happy home!
Who calls you ‘A Doll’s House’?

A self-loathing of debt
A pinch of punctuality, a tinge of engagement.
Who calls you ‘A Doll’s House’?

The messed laundry,the maimed laughter
The sweet scent of prayers that you slaughter
Who calls you ‘A Doll’s House’?

The burnt garlic, the half-cooked onion smirk,
At a quiet cranny, Nora’s crochet and embroidery lurk.

Who calls you ‘A Doll’s House’?
Nora’s starved essence, her miracles and crushing blows?
Ibsen squints from his cold grave.

All Rights Reserved. Lopa Banerjee. March 21, 2017

 

To know more about the Tideling poetic form, do visit the poet’s blog:

http://daipayannair.blogspot.in/2015/11/new-poetry-form-tideling.html?m=1

 

 

 

My Interview at Incredible Women of India: a women-centric online platform

In a world that I have been a part of, usually defined by a characteristic nonchalant stanceKriti Festival_reading a chapter from my memoir towards writers, there are moments like this too, when I look back and forth, reflect on my journey and feel that all has not gone amiss. Thank you dear Rhiti Bose for this up, close and personal session with me and for making me feel incredible!
Friends, do read my interview published at the Incredible Women Of India blogazine, and hope you will like my ramblings.

https://incrediblewomenofindia.wordpress.com/2015/08/26/lopa-banerjee/comment-page-1/#comment-327

Solitude

“In Solitude, the solitary man consumes himself, in the crowd the crowd consumes him.”–Friedrich Nietzsche

solitude

Amid the sonorous crowd,

loneliness sings its own symphony.

While you make love to solitude,

the deep, dark river flowing within,

Preposterous, the crowd,

with droplets of  sweat and the cloudburst of conceit,

Think you are clad with your own nudity

amid the faceless drapes.

They serenade around, like kites

flowing in their air, their words,

tainted smiles bubble up, melting, disjoined.

The daylight and the dusk pirouette,

their algorithm matched in unerring steps

rejoice in this indolent repartee.

With laser eyes, while they scan your countenance,

the crescendo and fall of your breath,

the silhouetted darkness of your tresses

swaying in the familiar landscape,

they miss the wordless carnival within,

Where you break and tweak,

Burn and rise up again,

from your own deep trenches.

All Rights Reserved. Lopa Banerjee. July 25, 2015

 

 

 

A very old, nameless poem

Image

Artist: Michel Le Roux. Title: Passion & Poesie (Passion and Poetry). Image source: http://www.adelecampbell.com

Note for the readers: This poem is one of my more premature piece, when I was just starting to nurture my passion for poetry and to express subtle thoughts poetically. Keeping this in mind, readers please consider any flaws or looseness in structure, form, imagery and metaphors. I have tried to better these aspects with time, with writing more, and moreover, with reading more and more of the works of great poets of all times.

From dawn to dusk’s inevitable abode
Habitual ramblings of my pedestrian soul,
Faceless structures intrude the journey.
Sometimes, a drop or two of wild desire oozes out.
Many a times a game of chess between passion and pain
Quivers the floor of sensibilities.

From the strained womb of eternity
Emerges each day, a new-born day,
And it seems, as if in its sparkling splendor
The darkness of the bygone days
Is a thing–not to utter, or even remember.
But then, every now and then,
My pigeon lusts are choked by its barren sterility…

And I being the sterile land that it renders
Shell myself in stony suppression.
And miles away do I leave the tumultuous sea of throbbing pulsation.

Your enormous nights and my awakened soul become
Far-off strangers, long departed.
The scarlet flame of your kiss falls headlong.

And now, those forsaken dreams will form a new cosmos,
Those have been fed with despaired blood and forbidden sweat.
Your milky dreams will lick my blood-red sighs
Lick the forsaken salt of my sweat,
To form a new heaven, with your past and captive kisses…
With an abysmal thirst that never fades out.
Come, will you, to explore it all?