moonlit night

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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

When Memories Rain


I don’t know when the rains started to bleed.

A taste of salty pining, a dash of

Peppered moments and memories, dancing together

Their bodies, clasped, loosening, melting, blurring.

I don’t know when my clay hands composed you,

Mold after mold, structure, shape, dimension

Nestled in the embrace of these coiled fingers,

Your cinnamon breath, blowing its fragments,

Mingling with my own, tearing me open,

The gash of my wounds, alive, and trembling still.

I don’t know when the smell of long lost love

Stark dead, ghost-white, wafts along

The interstate where the night reveals

And sea winds soar and sing, the smell

Of burnt lips entwined, slicing through

The raging night, earnest, shadowy, whispering.

I don’t know when the downpour stopped,

The blood, the tears, the salt tickling me,

Pulling me within, deeper still,

My crust and core, rising, floating

In the debris of the days, lost.


Let my muse hide in his blanketed darkness.

There are slumbers to attend to,
Nourishment to tend to,
Tastes to be brewed in sleep
Far more enticing than my rickety poetry.

In the deep dungeons of words and stanzas
Where I walk around, nude, barefoot,
Itching to burst over, in the helter skelter
Of unruly winds, the muse has been trampled over,
Bleeding, drowned in soot,
Hungry, like a child wailing, for acceptance.
Words of praise hovering around like fireflies of light,
Evaporate into thin air at the next bend of the road.

For now, I want my words, buried dead
Under the avalanche of nondescript public clutter,
Of the sordid paths paved for our recycled days.
I know my muse will speak to me again,
The dingy language of rhythms and blank verse,
Etched out through the lovelorn streets
Where I will wait for him, dreaming, forlorn.

The Forgotten Swan Songs


fairy tale

Image source: SurLaLune Fairy Tales Blog.


Rippling in melancholy melodies,
Washing past the jagged edges
Of my furtive calf-love,
My girlhood days breathe in a little nook
Of oblivion, a passing phase,
Forgotten pearls, scratched and resurfaced
In the waves of my kitchen songs,
Nestled in embalming domesticity.

My days, recycling and monitoring
At every turn, I thought my swan songs were long dead.
But a quicksilver flash of torn off petals
Wave at me in the mirror.

In their hushed fog, their half-finished stories
I feel, that their contours are running
Deeper than my brain had thought.

Footnotes: My poetic attempt to celebrate, search for, bring out the scattered pearls of my girlhood days. The days of my fumbling with hormones and love songs, the days of my secretly spun girl stories, the days of my sunshine dreams and the trophy of attaining puberty. Created and developed today while hosting an online poetry workshop for ‘The Woman Inc Poetry Project’. Thank you, Pooja Garg Singh and all other friends at TWIPP!


Indian Summer


Pic credit: Lopa Banerjee











If some day, I could weep the furnished warmth of your tears,

If some day, my own tears could speak with yours,

Radiant blue, opaque, like the tinsel-hued shore of our childhood days.


If our furtive, emaciated tears

could meet in dusty, forsaken doorways,

Ripple and flow, kicked off by the dust of melancholy melodies.

If some day, our tears meet in a wind-drifting trail, lead us

Through mossy courtyards, bumpy, narrow alleys, barking dogs

Stumbling over the curb to the shoreline of our last summer days,

If some day, our tears meet and run over the mirror lake

Dissolve in it in a myth of tenderness, in a high tide night,

The world around us, dark, clingy, tossed with the

Dead wind of our palms, our tears running away

From the narrow strip of the human landscape.


I would have made myself at home with your tears,

Be the child again, bursting wide, plundering your open wounds

With my very own, run over with you, hand in hand

Stumbling over random houses,

Crickets, the chocolate brown of our sweat,

Where we had once tripped, in the dark.


Copyright: Lopa Banerjee. October 28, 2014


The Revisiting

Notes for the readers: An elegy of a lost love, or a few lines dedicated to the wayward memories of a long lost relationship. A random love poem, yet again.

An old love flaunted itself in half-written letters.

An old love buried in the slippery sands of time.

An old love puffed fiercely, flashed sugary smiles,

Clenched at me tight, and loosened,

Cried in long, ragged sobs.

An old love finds me in smoke, sips of coffee and yawning.

An old love comes to visit me, his face ghostly and blurred.

I take him in and we begin to talk,

Greet each other in discreet, playful nods.

We talk in shadows and scribbling,

In warm monotones and the equation of rhetoric.

We’ve rubbed off awkward kisses, wayward fantasies

With the palm of our hands.

Our delicate, birdlike buffoonery slapped hard

By a slate of routine chores.

A scrapbook of lost words careen around the room.

My hands, stretch out to him in stray lines

Azure blue, green, purple shades of calf love.

Keystrokes of a lost harmony, fading, resounding,

Crossing paths in a dim, complicated dream,

Melting, wafting, diminishing again.

An old love is a long smear on my whiteboard face,

In twilight memories, summons me

In anonymous blinks and glittering.

I watch him from afar, lanky, white-haired and lost,

Leave the room with the faint odor of our used up days.





A very old, nameless poem


Artist: Michel Le Roux. Title: Passion & Poesie (Passion and Poetry). Image source:

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?

With you, in our midnight room

The numb darkness in the midnight room beckons.
You cling to my breast, asleep as an infant
Curled tight against the mother’s flesh,
Too tired to see the crescent moon swirling outside–
Wrapped in your childlike submission to intimacy–
The kind that fills your dreams with
Blissful shades of amber, blue and purple…

Outside, I can feel the crescent moon bleeding of despair,
I can hear its lullabies, heaving, rhythmic
Breathing in lonely hues of gray
That travel the world of the living.

The night gallops by, hour after hour, a runaway horse.
Soon the darkness of the room would be gone,
Soon the sunlight in the room will devour us,
Glowing and insistent.
Soon the lights in other rooms would grow
Brutal, and blinding.

You know, it isn’t about loving you,
Or understanding your gentleness,
Watching, protecting, overwhelming me with your closeness…
That we know for sure,
We were lovers in another lifetime;

Outside, every night the moon bleeds of despair
In its lullabies, sing of indescribable wounds.
The wind carries her voice away..

She sings of the unknown errors of our lives we’ve toyed with,
Up there in the sky, with flames gorging the darkness of the night.
I am here with you in the midnight room,
Or an illusion of ME, surrounding the calm..

Snuggling up the trail in the morning mist,
I remember the secret moonlight of unlettered years,
I find myself in darkened rooms of a long-forgotten home,
I am waiting, as usual, at the edge of sleep..

Walk right in, it’s yours’, dreaming still,
Unshaken by the somber wind.
The heart that harbors the dark alleys
Walled by silent tears,
Waits for you every day
In the eager darkness of return!

Bye Bye Midnight



In the wee hours of midnight,

My limp and frail body

Looks at the clock ticking on the wall,

While it surrenders 

To the golden sunshine of another day. 

I sit downstairs, alone with the midnight clock

And the unborn angel in my belly,

Listen to the rocking and weeping

And lullabies of my older angel upstairs.

Groping in the darkness of the room

I listen to her, smell the autumn air

As she breaks in sobs and unknown delight 

Clinging to her papa and her midnight dreams. 

One foot already in the sand of sleep, 

One at the edge of waiting,

I sit downstairs, feeling the wind and water

Of an unread poem by my muse,

Echoing my name in midnight chill. 

Nestled in a heaven of unspoken words and journeys

I sit here in my room, alone with midnight

With the rising wind sighing outside window panes.

I sit here, while dawn breaks out, 

My sleeping world rushes downstairs

Together we breathe the pure morning air. 

Till then, I bid adieu to the midnight clock

Ticking on the wall,

I lay down on the brink of another life

Smelling its wind and water in distant dreams. 

I bid adieu till I rise like a phoenix again. 

I’m all burnt out in the midnight chill,

Till I rise again in smoke and fire

Of the sunshine of another day. 

Footnotes: Just a passing thought, mostly in fragments of a jumbled up, narcotic mind which stayed awake like a nocturnal animal well past midnight. Written during fall 2010, when I was late into my second pregnancy, already a mother of our two year old daughter.