overcast
you sit
**** on mango skin
the juice on your chin
drips on
basil leaves,
your hands already wet
before the rain
we watch the yellow mountains
spring back to life
verdant, almost emerald
green foliage tender at the end of summer,
nourished by the dead roots
beneath softened soil.

how many rapes jokes does it take
to be funny?
he knows the answer is none.
no one had to tell Amnon
the sin in taking Tamar,
nor was Duryodhana confused
when he patted his thigh
mocking Draupadi,
nor Dusshasana dumb
when attempting to disrobe her.
yet you chant
men need to understand,
to read and watch
our unending torment
to understand evil.

I dreamt of draupadi,
birthed by fire
foot on black coals
smoldering
face smothered
soot
an offering vengeance -
mocked, name soiled
a scapegoat for war
because of a purpose
dictated by her father,
for laughter imaged from her lips
a blame only a man or five,
a few producers, even,
can shift to a woman.

knuckles ache
peel back the page:
Aurelius, Seneca, Epictetus
cluck the tongue
boys outside throw jabs
over a cracked
cricket bat
a father frets over
investments and client work,
simple things.
I read on
wondering how so many words
committed to tranquility
could be attributed to so many men
when women
trained stoics since the womb
would pen epics -
if only they were not plucking stones from rice.

directionally challenged
athens is the only city
her feet knows,
she wanders down alleyways
undiscovered
but familiar
and sits beneath an orange tree.
she takes one plump
sunset shaded fruit,
peels back thick skin,
juice gushes down her arm.
yet she smells cypress trees,
olive oil offerings, and cinnamon.
she whispers prayer,
nimble fingers pressing
a golden owl.

she said:
don’t forget!
milk, oil, flowers
our offerings, our worship.
my hands are broken
but still you kiss each finger.
I remember
milk for kheer,
oil for the lamp,
flowers for Shiva.
to me these are nothing.
in your eyes the world sleeps
can I sleep in them, too?

Hindi:

वह कही:
मत भूलना!
दूध, तेल, फूल
हमारा प्रसाद, हमारी पूजा
मेरे हाथ टूट गए हैं
लेकिन अभी भी तुम एक एक उंगली चुंबन।
मुझे याद है
खीर के लिए दूध,
दीपक के लिए तेल,
शिव के लिए फूल।
मेरे लिए ये कुछ भी नहीं हैं।
तुम्हारी आँखों में दुनिया सो रही
मैं उन में सो सकते हैं भी ?


Bangla:

ও বলল:
ভুলে যাবেন না!
দুধ, তেল, ফুল
আমাদের নৈবেদ্য, আমাদের পূজা।
আমার হাত ভেঙে গেছে
তবুও আপনি প্রতিটি আঙুল চুমু।
মনে আছে
খিরের জন্য দুধ,
বাতি জন্য তেল,
শিবের জন্য ফুল।
আমার কাছে এগুলি কিছুই নয়।
তোমার চোখে পৃথিবী ঘুমায়
আমি কি তাদের মধ্যে ঘুমাতে পারি?

you smear haldi,
groping the fish
like a beggar grasping at coin.
each fleshy slice
similar to tree rings
smothered in salt
and cast into the plastic
tuberware casket
blood still red near the bone.
already you fantasize
about every delectable dish
mustard seed on your tongue,
meanwhile, I stare at the eyes,
not queasy
but uncomfortable,
scales clinging to my shoes.

stove juts out
stuns in sixty-year-old kitchen
shiny, electric,
everyone marvels
so much better than the gas stove
as if the functions are not the same.
I, misled, maybe
have no newfound love
for false hearths
and work dens masquerading as homes.
we never knew food
just kosher salt, pepper, ketchup
a dash of rosemary
yet our curves labored, steamed hours
heaped over knotted heels
at the end of the workday
you were so tired
and we ate whatever you could manage.

I desired to taste liberty,
imagined I had it on a slow burner
simmering with
coriander seeds, cumin, cinnamon
chili powder bleeding into broth
parsley finely cut
into slivers for garnish grew
dry in my hands,
waiting.

Somehow I ended up
back in that same kitchen
a dream at my lips,
hungrier than before.

I hung my apron to dry
let the wind carry it, cradling
cloth with branch claws and
dancing legs all the way to hell
and back, embroidering glory
in each stitched parsley leaf,
I unthreaded each with a brittle needle
used each thin thread to create
my own tapestry.

a heap of rice
with small stones and salt
this red sari I am wearing
is a story
I cannot write.
So I am walking
with my bag of rice.
I give it to maa,
to you I give the salt
the stones I put between
today and tomorrow.

Bangla:

কত দেব?
এক গাদা ভাত
ছোট পাথর এবং নুন সঙ্গে
একটা লাল শাড়ি আমি পরা
এতা একটা গল্প
আমি লিখতে পারি না।
তখন হাটছি
ভাতের থলে সঙ্গে
আমি মা কে দিয়েছি
তোমাকে আমি নুন দিয়েছি
পাথর আমি রাখছি
আজ এবং আগামীকাল মাঝখানে।

yesterday I saw you.
today only your scent remains.
tomorrow, that too will vanish.

you said
the ache for home rumbles in your chest.
I tried to sooth it with words
in the absence of medicine
or a plane ticket.

when you left I moved,
became an immigrant
and I understood what it meant
to live without living.

I forgo the mall mehndi,
the astrologer on his maroon cushion,
order from the pani puri wala
a samosa and small talk -
for a moment
we breach liminality
but then I owe him thirty rupees
and I go alone,
sitting safe from summer heat
snack untouched.

I wait for the monsoon and hope
you will return for the mangoes,
perhaps then I can tell you
everything I meant to say
yesterday.

she wanted to be everything and nothing
roll universe in her palm
like a marble,
stars flame on her tongue
she spoke of a world
greater than this one
when she finally felt moon rock
cold hard basalt
heavy in her hands
she missed malleable soil stretched
into beds of clovers and daffodils,
craved the warmth of a star.

The List:
carrot, eggplant, arbi,
capsicum, green peas -
press one for more options -
apples, new list apps
applesauce and ketchup
not Heinz but the cheaper one,
a new pressure cooker because the whistle doesn’t work
And with each tweak it tizzles out more,
theek nahi hai, yaar  
no matter how many times you take it in,
it’s just jugaad again,
a permanent temporary fix,
so we need a new one, stainless
steel and big, bara
to cook all of your dreams.
grand total rages against your wallet,
paper thin but it’s digital,
anyway,
your eyes glaze, blaze
as the bag boy, too tired, too hassled,
too underpaid squishes the eggs
beneath the cooker
the shells quake in your eardrums
the smell of something rotten
beneath all those discounts.

buy now get one
free, it’s
the deal of a
lifetime. learn
how you can earn
more
doing
less - be
like a billionare
just like Bezos
gulp down
that $100 coffee
because in this discounted
course bundle - now
just a dollar less than
a grand,
we’ll teach you to go
from crumbling off-brand tennis shoes,
dollar menus
to combo meals
and houses large enough
for twelve families.
remember, this is America
sign up now
so that even if you’re shot tomorrow,
at least you were productive today.

I wanted to thank everyone for being so amazing. I started posting here nearly two months ago now, soon after I started writing a poem a day with the goal of 100 days. I completed my challenge earlier this week, and I couldn't have done it without being on here.  

Everyone's positive words have been really encouraging.

That's why I wanted to take a break from posting a poem and share this giveaway I'm hosting with you. I'm giving away 5 books - one large one of poetry and 4 of international short stories.

If it's your cup of tea, you can enter here:

http://kelseybanerjee.com/summer-giveaway-2020/

Thank you all again! Looking forward to posting poems again tomorrow. :-)

snow never comes early down south
if luck kisses our brow maybe
an inch near the Epiphany
those days we huddle near the windows
wrapped in wool and hot cocoa
baklava bleeding honey, our eyes
nailed to the fences watching cardinals
red wings flapping like poinsettia petals
a warm breath on a chilled grey sky.

plastic:
straight, good posture
white and abrasive as baking soda
thrifty, ideal of motherhood
hosting new years parties and other
get-togethers for the kids while sipping,
socially, of course, a margarita,
she buys her children, ruddy-nosed
devils, gifts while their friends stand with empty hands,
letting those other kids,
kids with empty pockets,
sit to the side,
and know their place.

steel:
another mother she
drives thirty miles to pick up a daughter’s friend,
male, lanky, and for cops
the wrong color at midnight
from a gas station in the wrong part of town
which is really just code
for poor and less white
and she takes him home to
sleep on the sofa
gives him hot tea
and in the morning pancakes with eggs
she doesn’t ask about the bruises
on his forearms or his heart
she just feeds him and drives him
to the library with a sandwich in old Tupperware
he doesn’t need to return
although he does with a thank-you note
and gratitude in his heart,
despite all the bitterness around him.

We slump,
cracks in the cumin seed siding
outside the police station,
stale air suffocates the sun
as it sinks below
a creek and a trash heap

visa papers
clutched like the cloak of God,
a 100 rupee note crumbled in your jean pocket -
just in case.
is it a crime to expect the worst
in spite of order?

blazing dry heat smothers our lungs,
we resemble
shrunken palm leaves held only
by the stone above us.

when the monsoon came
she cursed. She had been asking
those folks in the co-op
twiddling their thumbs and licking
the edges of their rupee notes
from the maintenance bills,
she’d ask them
to repair the terrace aching
and wheezing with water
from the early drizzles but
the treasurer preferred a Kashmir scarf
and the chairman a new scooter,
secretary painted his living room and added twenty rupees
for a samosa for the loyal watchman
and so she slept beneath flickering lights
hoping the wires didn’t blaze up,
consuming her whole.

you ask for sweet lime
scent sour
I carve carefully
the seeds from the nectar
each white pip
tumbles on the floral saucer
as if dragon bones
divining your daily fortune.
I toss them to the crows,
palm-sized sparrows
so somewhere, perhaps
a tree will grow
and those limes
might actually be sweet.

wind whines
haze rain
flings dishtowels
dupatta from
balconies.
150 kilometers
from the sea
I feel the chill,
nature bestows
a mini-monsoon,
relief
from summer’s sweltering
tirades.
but what destruction
could this storm, too, bring?

cheap matches
it took three trips
striking those brittle necks
against the grate.
but when I finally lit
sandalwood incense,
that smoldering scent
calmed my jittery soul,
aching for reprieve
from longing.

if I stay, I miss the BBQ,
if I leave, I miss the mangoes.
There is no hope for
those of us trapped
between two worlds.

forgotten,
egg yolk splits, sautées
golden sun between butter and pepper
white halo hardens, boils bubbling a ***** browning
while the one yellow eye runs
with the clock hands
carefully I peel the rubbery flesh away
lay it on saucer, slather bread with butter
already wondering what wry churns the day brings.

an obstacle
they said of the mountain
its white peak piercing
moonlit tapestry trembled
against the stone,
their complaints nothing but twigs
in feasting campfire.

father,
it has been over a decade
since my last confession;
in fact,
that crisp lenten day,
you in your purple,
I refused to come in,
giggling,
because I had committed nothing
worth an intermediary.

under lock and key,
anxious not to make trouble,
a natural people pleaser,
what could I child do but
laugh at sin?

today my prayers are mingled -
mangled,
a clutter of languages and deities:
my god is one but also many.
I’m not even Catholic anymore,
But for old time’s sake,
will you listen?

no one tells you
being an immigrant
is being a stallion
front hooves tied knotted
course rope
chaffing at your ankles
holed up in a greener pasture
gnawing at tender leaves
while watching
acres away
those you love
wild and free, wind
whistling against their cheeks,
a throbbing ache to be with them
but knowing you cannot.

you weren’t there
so I went on asking
cards questions
each word a plea
for something else
and in return
each image printed
in monochrome blue
offered an answer
you would have hated,
but each one
sour against my tongue
sounded more honest
than your praise.

what have you done?
inhibitions and doubts
smell like spoilt auflauf
and the day after summer.
your words are advertisements
for another conversation,
but I am not ready.

German:
was hast du gemacht?
die hemmungen und zweifel
riechen wie verderbenes auflauf
und am tag nach der sommer.
deinen wörter sind werbung
für ein andere unterhaltung,
aber ich bin nicht bereit.

Hi everyone!

One of the reasons I've been quiet the last two weeks or so is because I've been setting up my first poetry e-book.

This week I have it on sale on Kindle for $0.99. You can get it here if you are interested: getbook.at/ShyAnger

Otherwise, next time I post, I'll have another poem. :-)

oil splattered
underfoot
dripping from the diya,
leaking slowly
cotton wick burns black
smoke wisp
bending
paints the ceiling
like kajal  
around your eyes.
my palms trace the wooden
alter,
a splinter punctures my thumb.

From the desk
her spine creaks,
each rubbery cartilage
like a phone pole.
each breath realigns
bone and belief  
she types away her thoughts
knuckles thinking faster than
brain cells, and with clacks.
it’s only been four hours,
starting into screen light
she wonders when she’ll see the sun.

steel plates warped
bend with the burden of
dust,
I keep washing
skin wrinkles
weeps
still I scrub
until the plate breaks
the silver scar
lined with blood.
I throw it away,
unwrap a new one
knowing that tomorrow
more dust will come.

you couldn't eat right for days
tongue swollen, scabbed
red like Christmas lilies.
we drank whiskey, slowly
slowly
there's poison in love, somewhere
sneaking behind concern
disguised it rouses old wounds
dreams left unfulfilled,
when finally you could feast again,
we found our plates empty.

sun dries my hair
thick and sopping with
dahi, coconut oil,
on the terrace
I peer into the endlessness
of all four directions and
the summer haze
does not halt my lack of
hesitation, inhibition.
lokhi hands release the robe and
I embrace the morning sun.

she serves silence,
it lies on the tongue
like ash.
her quiet cuts
jagged,
tears the hem of my heart
I unravel,
and she throws my words away
with burnt-black peppers.

our shadows mature
faster than us,
curve towards the light
edges sharp fringes of
empty pomegranate shells
and even when the night consumes them
they wait beside us.

From wood to wood
teak faces painted red
I wash your feet
with salt from heaven’s rim.

I observe
the eye of god
from our window I
witness
the carving of sorrow
it sprouts from Shiva’s
black hair, the Ganga
seeps from it like a serpent.

we go to the temple
complaints like cigarettes
in the stub box
smoke suffocates our hearts
so that we can offer
god only dead things.

they repeated
that your story didn’t matter -
a mantra
they couldn’t calculate
the value of the sun.

hi again darling,
this week I worked
so hard my hamstrings
are screeching from sitting,
and somehow I’ve learned to sleep
eyes wide open.

Honey I’m tired
but I don’t mind bringing home bacon.
after all, if you’re going to call me
lakshmi of the house,
I better find some gold
before you blow the conch.

this week I worked
through a sea of dead
names and
dead faces of friendly strangers
that kinda looked like you
and I toiled through another
pandemic-ridden seven days
even from home I’m wearing
a mask because
it’s too hard to see tragedy
and be working instead.

So on my break
I retweet
fleet,
press some of that goddess gold
into the digital donations,
because even a world away
even if you don’t see it,
there’s little wealth
in work.

against the moon rays
we drank rose milk,
burned the petals beside
sandalwood and benzoin.
we wondered
how anything could be
as magnificent as this moment?

I plucked rangoon creepers
they did not slip through my
fingers into dust
like the crepe myrtles. at your feet
I laid bengal trumpets and
lavender; pink oleander,
between your toes.
smoldering agarbatti
wafted over your eyes
everything cedar smoke and fire -
no burnt offering
could smell as sweet.

On the daily

yesterday she said:
you talk too much
please don’t tell
the truth,
your aspirations or your dreams
to anyone,
they just want gossip.

but -
today she says:
talk, why don’t you?
so rude to not even utter
a single syllable.
at least try to speak.

kilos of misunderstandings
burden my tongue
all her word taste of salt
that won’t dissolve,
but I wait,
expecting one day,
she’ll offer sweet wine.

light like a razor blade
I squint
at a pointed shadow,
a thief, I thought,
but it was a cop.

his flashlight
stabs at stuffed animals
and plaid school skirt.
voice gruff
mother’s anxiety pools
in heated, clammy hands,
and when he leaves,
boots threatening,
she follows, rambling.

I wonder how
a man can mistake a child
for an adult.
but maybe,
he just liked rattling the cage
his badge built around us.

they say
great men found
enlightenment caves,
outside civilization.
unconvinced,
in my high rise I look out
over the land.
what wisdom
can one find eavesdropping
in dusky caverns?
what knowledge can be
gleaned outside the home,
which cannot be found within it?

so many yesterdays
sacrificed calendars,
penciled dates
and whimsies called
dreams

sleep tastes
like milk tea and cinnamon,
wind-cooled
for maybe fifteen minutes
drowning in sugar
so that your tongue is sweet and numb.

I used to wonder
why you slept so long
plaid covers up to your nose
pillow imprinted
with your crown.

now I know
that dawn often tastes bitter
and the remains of the day
sticky like pomegranate rot
when dusk arrives
like a cool drink in summer
I can finally slake
this thirst for something different.

at every err
the rim of his voice ignites
a flame bickers at the edge of reason.

you see,
he casts blame
like the sun casts shadow,
each complaint
as complaint as a mother tongue.

could have, should have, would have
I toss the words away
into the tones of the sea,
and hope to pluck
resilience
from that same shore.

you only love me in the silence I keep
I wet my tongue with white wine
quiet,
and when you slumber I speak
each syllable a liberation.

two years
she plunges into frigid
waters.
do you remember
what they used to call us?

loved, maybe,
but only by those
who misunderstand it.

she waits
unshaven, unwashed,
exhausted
from her past,
for her future.

You want to roast me like an eggplant, all brittle flakes and bleeding oil, as if that puckered off-white skin underneath reveals significant sins. But I’m a ******* diamond. Not rare or edible or remotely useful, you’ll only find the stubborn carbon Hollywood calls beautiful. They fail to mention, or maybe you forgot, I was born bearing the earth on my back and my crucible of 2000 degrees makes your stove look like a nightlight.

So if you want to cut me to watch me break, be careful - I’ll shatter your knife.