I’m a Bengali in sombrero
An Indian from Kolkata
I live at a stone’s throw
From where flows the Ganga.

I speak in Bengalee
For me the sweetest language
Like the Ganga flows freely
Has Sanskrit as lineage.

Rice is my staple food
So are dal and fish
A cup of tea is too good
With two biscuits on a dish.

Around me spreads green countryside
Where grows all the foodgrain
Rivers flow wild and wide
Their banks home joy and pain.

I was born and reared in this riparian land
Where soil is tilled in peasants’ sweat
Sparkles in moon the Bay’s white sand
Weaving dreams for many a poet!

Copyrights for all the poems (except the re-posts of works of fellow poets) belong to Pradip Chattopadhyay.

Cover Photo: Myself, Feb 10, 2017.
I’m a Bengali in sombrero
An Indian from Kolkata
I live at a stone’s throw
From where flows the Ganga.

I speak in Bengalee
For me the sweetest language
Like the Ganga flows freely
Has Sanskrit as lineage.

Rice is my staple food
So are dal and fish
A cup of tea is too good
With two biscuits on a dish.

Around me spreads green countryside
Where grows all the foodgrain
Rivers flow wild and wide
Their banks home joy and pain.

I was born and reared in this riparian land
Where soil is tilled in peasants’ sweat
Sparkles in moon the Bay’s white sand
Weaving dreams for many a poet!

Copyrights for all the poems (except the re-posts of works of fellow poets) belong to Pradip Chattopadhyay.

Cover Photo: Myself, Feb 10, 2017.

In the narrowest of lanes
I found the sweet shop.

Behind dusty crumbling glasses
dozed the old keeper
smelling of sugar, milk and sweat
over fossils of Paleolithic sweets
on a time machine from the century
he never was
to a millennium he doesn't bother about
clinging onto clay by pottery
not succumbing to synthetic
counting not on android
but accounting on parchment
with the art of finger's arithmetic
most intricately scribbled with pencil
announcing progress is a trouble
not designed for the simple
and contentment has no more nitty-gritty
than price and quantity.

Over his head
spiders worked and reworked
from the ceiling to the glass
as have been doing
since Carboniferous.

The man at the studio doesn't like us

we aren't pretty as the teens
not dazzling like the newly weds
our faces are pretty grim
smiles are once a river
foreheads dry riverbeds
eyes hold no commotion
but he does it for money
and winds up quick.

We walk to the river
where under the grey February sky
she plays with our reflections
babbling and breaking us
into unreadable pieces.

February 16, 2.30 pm

the boat pierced the grey mist
and her eyes were misty

it has taken us twenty years
to be on that green island
to dig up the time
she glowed like a butterfly
and I shivered from her touch

her hand is ripened now
but that time
still hanging in the air
unleashed a wildness
froth from which
spilled into two children
chasing butterflies.

Sabuj Dwip (Green Island) on the confluence of the rivers Bhagirathi and Behula; 1996, 27.11.2016; 1 pm.

Set your aim well
narrow your eyes to see
where hatreds dwell.

It's everywhere in the land
with guns in our hand
we are fighting a war
brother against brother
a battle without cessation
nation against nation
settle with the bullet
more right is which faith
decide with gunfire
which race is placed higher
for centuries the same story
battles make bulk history.

Races raged cities burned
but we never learn
to build one world city
one humanity
only aim further well
narrow our eyes to see
where differences dwell.

The feeling I got when I held and aimed the gun.
(Cover photo)

Love these worn wrinkle's age
earned in life's forest fire sun
or leave it alone as that dead racoon
its highway flat back, glass eye staring
It's a Thursday stubble face resign
from a razor's kiss no longer matters
A foggy focused boiling whistle morning
thinking of a cup-a-joey for rattle's sake
all jitters and back o'-da-bus crush
Tell, this is not all or much chronicle
but a listen to sun baked cones
snap, crackle or popping verse
Nature's song as increasing ring count
untangling a dance of season's purse
paid Piper tweets in highest branches
straws up this inner sap and sighs

≈ cec

Around me is dying another day
silently falling in surge of emotion
in the mournful dirge of the dusk
dropping on the black drongo
flying home in dream of dawn
beneath the first star of twilight
blushing in the kiss of sky
heralding another earth evening
celebrating death in the dire need of
resuscitating life.

Deena
Deena
Feb 5

near-perfect he was
on paper
i couldn't get enough of him
either
he lacked emotional depth
a little
it was made up for in awe
of aesthetic
long brown hair, brown eyes
ornery fingers
left him at the edge of a timely
caper
when stumbled by smart guy
warm, safer
everything near-wrong
on paper.

inspired by Pradip - his poem "Miss Giving"
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/1855639/miss-giving/
 
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