Forlorn

moonlit night

Image Source: hdw.eweb4.com

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Did I lose you somewhere
Between the hyacinth and the ribbons
The pleats and folds of my adult drape?

I know you still wait for me, my moon
As the night flutters, the unfailing rose
Drunk with solitude and honeyed longing.

I breathe shallow and deep, my eyes
Swept away by stardust, I am alone
You milk, eager and firm, waits for me
At the shore of the night.

Between my trembling lips and voice,
Your song hides in the fugitive wind,
Slender and silent, you walk away,
Barefoot, soaking in the night’s last ashes.

Did I call you, my white hills
Breaking, sinking at the wake of dawn?
I return to the day, dust blown
Crushing sand beneath my feet,

You have sliced me to pieces,
I move, unsure, forlorn, in spirals
Of smoke as I call you out
My moorings trapped in the day, dying.

Footnote: Written for a weekend writing prompt on the moon, “the quintessential silver orb that steals our heart every night”, as had been put by my fellow poet Vinita Agrawal at the Woman Inc Poetry Project.
Copyright: Lopa Banerjee. February 23, 2015

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Between This Life and the Other: The Rain

dark rain

Dark Rain. Image Source: imgarcade.com

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Do my dirty walls rain, still?
Dots imprinted on dark leaves, scrawling,
Pressing their heads to the crushing dust of human pain?
Do the fingers still dig into
The dark, unfathomable whole,
Beneath the ribs, the pain, stark dead, burning?

Do the primal clouds of monsoon jump in puddles, still?
Longing to steam, to cry in small streams,
Ripples and kisses, running down, the deluge
Slitting throats, trampling my primordial breast?
I have seen the skin, blood, bones
Of the rain, hung on to thirsty fingers
Licking the pickled salt of a fleshy pain.
Is it mine, still?
Forgot its name since we last held hands.

Does it still rumble, growl inside,
The billowing cloud-fire, the necklace of grief?
The night, jumping, leaping, sticking her tongue out
For one last dance, entwines me,
Stumbling over, as I listen to mourning ghosts,
Moving around, in circles, the earth
A whisper of sprinkled ashes of pain?

The smoke, a translucent fusion,
Do I drink it whole? The murky waters
Ruminating on the slumber-buried drone of pain.
Do I shake it off like old dust? Here it comes back
Peels and hums amid grinning, littered rain.

The bird rests beneath the rusted bricks and walls
The flash of cool light, of rain, long gone.
The heart of the wind beating amid the dead leaves in rain,
I stand, smothered between the damp walls,
Breaking and sinking, birdlike, aflame, drowning.

Let the Night Sing

night

Image Source: Lifehacker.com.au

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Shadows creeping,
The fangs of the night unfold,
Faint footsteps resound,
Silvery beams of moonlight.
The dark woods,
Dense canopy of trees,
The pitch black,
Skin slicing through
Silhouetted darkness.
Twinkling stars
Hissing sound,
Let the moon stay,
Let us make love.

Lopa. February 9, 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?

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