Mother Earth: A Plea

Note: My entry for the Earth Day anthology published by Poetry Paradigm, titled ‘Poetry4OurPlanet – an anthology of 108 heart-warming, and poignant poems on the blue planet, our own Mother Earth. I have written the poem in the loving memory of a street girl in Kolkata, India. The anthology is now out in Scribd.com and available in 43 countries.

You have seen my absurd chuckles
My coos and gurgles as I revolved
In your orbit, sunk in my mother’s emaciated breasts.
Did you revolve with me, Mother Earth,
While the starlight gazed at flowery, full-endowed children?
While the full moon welcomed them with the whiffs of her spices?

Did your night sky melt when, at three,
My nimble fingers devoured by my parched mouth
Craved to count your bountiful stars,
My hungry body, resting in the littered city streets?
When I dreamt about floating in your placid shrine,
My eyes opened up to dry patches of dirt?

At seven or eight, I have peeked through the plastered walls
Of schools where the blue globe, staring at me like the harvest moon
Summoned me, the kohl-lined eyes of the teacher tracing its curves,
I never knew the Equator; the Mediterranean never ebbed and flowed
In my scarred, burnt out days. But even I knew how
The last drops of monsoon smelt,
its juices ricocheting off my pockmarked face.

I am the earthen salt of the grimy, molten streets they trample every day.
At sixteen, even my frothy foam shimmers, dances in zigzag sunlight.
At the call of twilight, when mud and filth pops out of your blades of grass,
I paint you, Mother Earth; craft you with the folds of my stained palms.

The cosmos around, a commotion of rebuffing times.
Are you rattling, Mother earth, staring at me, tossed aside
As I clutch at your slithered pieces? Do you, for once,
Look at my papery wrists, think you could have nourished me better?
See how my torrents still sing your songs,
See how our jagged edges shine as I drown within your crevices,
Threadbare, spiraling in my earthen wants.

All Rights Reserved. Lopa Banerjee. April 29, 2016

Do download the entire anthology from this link:

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Na Hanyate: The Resurrection

“Lo, and behold, you came to my study and ravaged my virgin heart.

It does not die_the book_Goodreads image

Image Source: Goodreads.com

Your words of lilting love and sanskrit slokas
A happy coronation as I twisted around in my new foliage,
Burning, reddened to crimson in the hearth and home of your candle-lit promises,
I carried you, in my mermaid fish-tails and swirled around,
In the lustrous, magical nights, my winged flight
taking me to the heady jasmine, the flora and fauna of our European homeland,
Our bodies undulating in the sensual calling
Of the ocean, the mirrored reflections of us, coiled, smothering….”

The opening stanza of my narrative poem, ‘Na Hanyate: The Resurrection’, inspired by the unrequited saga of love between Amrita (Ru) and her French philosopher lover Mircea Eliade, as depicted in the phenomenal Bengali novel by Maitreyee Devi, titled ‘Na Hanyate’, (‘It Does Not Die’, published in 1974), has been published in Readomania today. The novel in Bengali had been written in response to Eliade’s own autobiographical reflections of the relationship portrayed in his book ‘La Nuit Bengali’ ( written in Romanian in 1933 and translated into English later as ‘Bengali Nights’) which was later made into a film in 1988.
Do like, comment if you enjoy reading the full poem published here:

http://www.readomania.com/story/na-hanyate-the-resurrection

The Murky Rain: Attempting a roseate sonnet

 

The little girl slices through the deep blue blush, the rain tears the clouds asunder

Beneath the flickering street light, her thin frame bursts in a hungry deluge.

Moored in the murky edges of the city, where the night traffic diminishes,

In the rain waters she unbuckles, finds her refuge.

 

Strands of her hair misplaced, she had sold framed photos of goddesses

Her bony body swimming through the unending vortex of urban vehicles.

The traffic honked, washed ashore the practiced voices of denial,

A middle-aged woman stopped the car, called her inside in unknown syllables.

 

Inside the damp walls of the unknown ‘home’, voices, flesh and bones

Crisscross, sex-starved beings haunt and whistle, rippling through hungry moans.

 

Rummaging through her, ghost voices swim, fall with a dull thud.

Outside, near the filthy gutter, her little teeth gnash the stale breads.

Swirling in the night rain, voices of her washed out childhood, her lost village

Ebb and flow, the rose bud of her being torn up in shreds.

Chisel: Ballad of a Daydreaming Maid

April 28, 2015

National Poetry Writing Month

 

Tender, soft and young hands
Spread out in spirals of want,
Tiny feet, walking barefoot
Over the cloud train of
fairy-winged dreams.
The softest coos, gurgles
and milky, blabbering words
Leap from the depths of the earth
As the mother chisels
the little forms
raining over her,
kissing the soft petals,
the dark hazel eyes,
the happy flowers sprung open
to her, a resonant spring song.

The days her weary hands
Wipe rooms, wash sticky dishes,
Beat, wash, strain
and pat dry stained clothes,
Her tongue parched to the core,
She chisels virgin daydreams
that she had nurtured in her womb.
The dreams scream in the sickening heat
While she hums silently,
The mosquitos and ants, all back,
Crawling over her in the numb dark
Of the kitchen counter
she wipes the kitchen tirelessly,
Spik-and-span, till her masters
come home in the evening,
The glint in her eyes, grabbing
the paper notes.
Her body, shrinking, coiling,
the vermilion smudged in sweat.

At home, the walls reek
of cheap, store-brought liquor
Coughing up, in constant phrases
The avalanche of her dreams blasted.
At home, inside the crumbling walls
Her toddler girl tumbles over her belly,
The snowy shrouds of dreams
Come back again, in the dark,
As the babe in her womb kicks and nudges.
Her morning begins, digging in the dirt,
Sculpting yet another daydream
and the next, under the flame-lit sky,
Within the polka-dotted walls
Where she breaths, flapping, undone.