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

Let The Night Sing: My Maiden Poetry Collection

It gives me much happiness to share that my maiden poetry collection ‘Let The Night Sing’, an assortment of 70 various poetic musings on being a woman, a mother and a lunar soul has been published by respected poet laureate and veteran litterateur Madan Gandhi sir and Global Fraternity of Poets (India) and is now on Amazon India. Soon to be available in the US and worldwide.

I thank dear fellow poet, amazing artist and co-founder of Rhythm Divine Poets, Sufia Khatoon for the brilliant cover illustration, Dr. Santosh Bakaya for the very in-depth and enriching foreword, Dr. AV Koshy for the kind and generous blurb encompassing the theme and the nuances of the poems.

Sharing the introduction page of the book, which speaks of the overarching theme of the poems. Hope some of you will like reading it.

Introduction:

‘Bodies are visible hieroglyphics. Everybody is an erotic metaphor and the meaning of all these metaphors is always the same; death.’
Octavio Paz

For those who are in love with the poetry of the body, continue to revel in it through its bruises and blood, continue to see the molecules of living glittering in darkness, for those who talk to the strained ribs of our Mother Earth, to the hollowness and inviting quiet of cities and landscapes in your dreams and waking, for those who see even in the body of death, a gorgeous, pitiless song in its smoky embers, here I present my lunar musings, springing up from the splinters and shards of my being. These broken pieces, these wayward poems have taken me to unexpected places, delving deep into my childhood and puberty. With them, I have seen my womanhood evolve, with them I have traveled to the long-forsaken terrains of my hometown in Kolkata, India, where I keep going back again and again. With them, I have recorded the phenomenon of death as I have seen it, a silent language of communion, as my voice flattened against its ethereal quiet.
Hope you will enjoy the ride, the bumps and bolts along the way.
Lopa Banerjee

Let the night sing_Lopa Banerjee

The Amazon India link to buy the book:

http://www.amazon.in/Let-Night-Sing-Lopamudra-Banerjee/dp/9383755342/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1499285605&sr=8-1&keywords=Let+The+Night+Sing

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!

 

Mindless Meanderings

 

Note: Poetry for the prompt contest of ‘The Significant League’, a literary group in Facebook, judged by Dr. Santosh Bakaya. My poem was the winner of the picture prompt contest which got me Dr. Bakaya’s phenomenal book ‘Where Are The Lilacs: A Collection of Peace Poems’, published by Authorspress.

 

14046146_1075378965832608_7819078069286026755_n

Fly on, what makes you stop on the bare, grassless streets?

The morning will soon gorge on ashen smoke and filth.

How can your little chuckles and chirping, your strolls

Holding on tight, to your flock, jutting out human ears

Change the course of the pockmarked day?

The city needs to thrive in its skin and blood,

The black hair, the soot and the whistling horns,

The pervasive rhythm, the sound drums.

The city doesn’t need its parched, shadowy silence,

The shitty moans of street urchins,

Your scattered, broken dances, your mindless trails.

What are you nibbling on, at the traffic lights, violating

The intersections, the ground beneath your feet

Murmuring a fluid, nascent language?

Fly up, and over those grimy streets,

Those vignettes of cardboard houses and cars,

The spell of cacophony shutting out the music of soft earth

In the man-made parks. Fly up and claim your space,

The sooty sky might still want the red earth

Breathing in your bravado voices.

Claim your space where solitude is still a distant smell,

pouring out, scarcely, as bleeding, shriveling rain.

 

All Rights Reserved. Lopa Banerjee. September 3, 2016.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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.

The Destitute Verse

heart

Image source: Morguefile.com 

Note: Trans-created in English, inspired by my Bengali poem ‘Gothroheen, Bewarish Kobita’, composed on Facebook, yesterday, dated July 19, 2016.

Acknowledgements: Mandakranta Sen (poet, novelist)

The heart, my dear, a truant, spitfire girl.

The fire burns, trembling, flickering, grueling embers.

The words lay, scrunched, shards of shattered glass.

dance daintily, prance and preen in the mind’s monochrome pastures.

Let them drift apart, and collide sometimes, rummaged,

unpacked, let them be freed of their planned lines, carefully carved chapters.

I wake up to their cacophony; all I can muster is refusal.

I refuse to pick up, chew on the cuds of commonplace stories,

lapped up by all others. I refuse to be the articulate novel, licked,

sucked, chewed, consumed to bone and marrow.

I refuse to be one more clone of the authors spinning around, in multi-colored masks,

Head to toe, crackling with vain, twisted praise, and sycophancy.

I refuse to be that succulent drink reveling on yet another habitual book release,

The decked up, charming whore of the artsy, snooty intellectual.

In my night sky, I dance alone, my sacred bits and pieces,

The slivers of my shattered glasses, my dying, indomitable embers,

the spoonfuls of my stained blood, the fragile chunks of my words,

my battered womanly pride.

The heart, a truant, spitfire girl,

and its unruly words will live on,

Let the birth pangs and the eager tears rise, and explode.

 

 

Princep Ghat

princep ghat

Princep Ghat, Kolkata, India. Image source: 

travel.snydle.com

 

Some days I am just a rusted yellow,

a drooping, crumpled mess

The waters lashing on my eyelashes

a heart-rending tale.

Some days I am just the flames,

the choking silence of the pains of others.

My palms cupping the indelible marks

of bygone days, scalding.

 

Some days I slip into the liquid sound

of poems and boatmen’s songs,

My holy texts trailing after,

smudged, blown away in smithereens.

Some days, the water feels smug-clean

in my sleepy troughs and creases,

Some days, I am the blood

and the shards, the shameless smoke

and the cigarette stubs,

the poison that whirls in my subterranean flow.

 

I know some evenings

your breath brushes past mine,

And we are kindred souls,

burning in each other’s fire.

I know while you dig me

deep with your nails,

the dusk of death is in your skin,

amid the living, breathing mess.

 

Some days when the birds chirp

and the holy crows caw,

In your mossy banks, you sing a song

that once was your mother’s chore.

Today, you rinse your mouth with it

as you chant the holy ‘Om’,

and return home, in your parted lips,

it hangs, a primal hum.

The Mad Poet’s Refrain

lonely

Image source: Morguefile.com

Poetry, the lump in my throat,
The bite sized chunks I gulp,
Without chewing.
Like the thorny night that stings
The hysteric brown earth,
Yet croaks in its own tainted lightning,
Words will find their way amid the rubble,
Relentless, beating, thumping.

Come home, to the potholes and bumps, step in the puddles of the
folds between my palm, dear words,
As my litter-laden mind squashes you,
Aborts you, again begets you.

Come, let me sip you with recycled juices and snatches of hogwash conversations.

I know you will come out some time I will least expect, in spurts,
In malignant droplets,
In the edge of my waking.

Hemorrhage: A Prose Poem

“Hail you, woman, who do you love so, the bleeding yarns of your footwork nudging his needs? Is it a ramp, or a catwalk in seductive slivers of silk and embroidered, perky clothing, where you float around, your kohl-lined eyes, barbecued in the carnival of sweaty, sloppy, alcohol-littered breath?

Sufia_artwork

Painting: by Sufia Khatoon, poet, social activist, curator of Art Fair, Kolkata and co-founder of Rhythm Divine poetry group, Kolkata, India.

“Soon enough, you would grow up, your breasts would ripen, bounce, in the wilderness amongst beasts”, the world had whispered in patches and freckles of adult talk. The feet had then blistered and burnt in the gushing secrets of your newfound shoes, as you crisscrossed, hopped through the sylvan steps, trailing through blocked, clogged pores.

Whose name do your feet scribble on the banks of the insistent scarlet flood, as the shards of the night come over to you in spurts? Whose name do you call out, huskily, rustling, while your fingers and bones fail you, scraped, twisted, painted in the graveyard of your bridal dreams?”

Some excerpts of my prose-poem ‘Hemorrhage’, which is inspired by a painting by Sufia Khatoon, published in Incredible Women of India on the occasion of the 6th Woman Scream International Poetry and Arts Festival 2016, initiated by Jael Uribe, a poet and activist from Dominican Republic.

The recording of the entire piece in Youtube:

To read the full poem published in Incredible Women of India, do visit:

https://incrediblewomenofindia.wordpress.com/2016/03/14/hemorrhage-a-prose-poem-by-lopamudra-banerjee/

DeJa Vu

FOR # NAPOWRIMO #
 
You and me have traveled that tattered soil before,
Look how its nameless rocks beckon us.
The streets, like molten lava, the harvest moon
Bleeding, the chipped edges calling out our names.
 
You and me have drifted, swallowed our distances
of several different births. Had this land devoured us
When we dipped our rusty nails in waxy sands?
Look how we resurface, our unfinished story ablaze in the land.
 
Look, how the lamp still burns, I encase your warmth, flickering.
I track your musky breath in the city’s labyrinth.
The sepia temple echoes my grief in crushed ashes.
The vermilion, smudged, straining, awaits our hushed voices.
 
Look how the sand stones carve our last, intertwined breaths.
Look how the ruptured skins of our memories
dance, splutter around the wet, rainy fields.
Do you see those kohl-rimmed teardrops, pirouetting in the rain?
 
Do you see the jagged edges of the river banks where we slept?
Your silver touch, licking my dark spots, my sun-kissed orchard?
Look how the river song seeks us again, surreptitious, vicarious,
Come, let us hold hands and plunge, nude, surrendering.