The Birdsong

love-birds-wide

Image source: Pixgood.com

 

Flapping, fluttering wings, the birds twitter, chirp
The murmur of their love songs–close, afar.
The twilight sings as they anchor their kisses,
Unspoken words deepen, darken,
In the moist mouth of the night.

Together, they dig into the rough flesh of the night.
In the deep blue of its waves,
They break and sink, hunting down
The deep, dark hours, falling, frenzied.

The night nurtures their songs in the wind
As they swirl and twirl, burning, stroking, kissing,
Up above the river beds, the petals
Of the dawn unfold.

They squat, unzip, lying
In surrender to the slender,
Definitive daylight. The light, drunken, gleeful
Carves the braids and pleats, the saffron
And milk, the contours of our unwritten verses.

In the virgin dream of the morn, they swim
Tender, green, floating in the morning’s womb
Like unnamed embryos. The light of words
Christen them, drop by drop, glittering, looming.

Drop by drop, our verses rain and dance, rekindle flame.
We melt together in our steep, aimless flight.
Our kisses sprout from the edge of the night,
Bleeding, entwined, yet never letting go.

Dreaming: The Resurrection

love-poem1234

Image source: bestfreepoems.wordpress.com

 

The Times Square in your words of lilting love,

A happy coronation, giving a home to your candle-lit promises,

A lustrous, magical night on the New Year’s Eve, with its winged flight.

The Caribbean cruise, our bodies undulating in the sensual calling

Of the ocean, the mirrored reflections of us, coiled, smothering.

 

Deep into the sea, in the turquoise blue waves,

Your hungering touch races, sobers down, and whispers:

“Would you love me, all your life, little mermaid?”

 

 

Resting on my new bridal breasts, deepest sighs of pain

Slide down to the waters, holding me for moments,

Strumming their unsaid words like fingertips dancing, playing,

I feel the ripples of their fingers, emaciated, drowning.

Fingers that had wrote a world for long forsaken love stories,

Drift ashore. I open my mouth and moan, in an island of sanctioned love.

 

And yet, the world around us, a carnival of trampled love,

Our longings, crackling with unfinished songs,

We forget the impending warranty of our mortality.

In the ephemeral twilight of the island,

The conch shell blows, awakens, unleashes and conjoins

Copulated souls. The symphony of a new, unknown raaga

Plays on, “na jayate na mriyate va kadaachin, naa yam bhutwa  bhavitya

Na hanyate hanyamaane shareere”……

The soul that is unperishable, immortal, old, eternal,

Undefined by birth or death, becomes a trembling, raging river of love.

The newly discovered terrain may or may not be

The bustling Times Square, the iconic Eifel Tower,

Or the mighty, cascading richness of the Niagara. But it sure is

The smoldering hearth of the bride who takes you in,

Throws herself with you in the boundless waters, melts with you

In the wild spring’s song, as you whisper to her:

“Would you love me all your life, little mermaid?”

 

The dream is but a commonplace one, collapses and resurfaces

In every wake of dawn, a corpse washed out of its last remnants of blood,

As it calls us, in a chilled world of grey, to take in its scattered ashes.

We breathe in and breathe out the promises that blossomed,

Weaved memories in pieces, wilted and died, to rise from their ashes,

Phoenix-like, spreading across the spring canvas.

“Ajo nityo saswatohayang puraane/Na hanyate hanyamaane shareere”.

The soul that is unperishable, immortal, old, eternal,

Undefined by birth or death, chases you in curved lines

Of the landscape of this life, dances barefoot,

To the silken music of death. In the horizon beyond,

Another life, surges, ripples in light, dreams,

In the shared tapestry where we have woven our love.

 

Lopa Banerjee. December 9, 2014

 

Footnotes: This poem is actually a sequel of my other love poem ‘The Drunken Lovers’ Song’, part of a series of love poems that I am developing out of the thoughts and contexts of some old Bengali love poems I had penned a decade earlier. The Bengali poems were written with more or less similar thoughts, but with different nuances.