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Apr 2019 · 1.2k
Venus Flytrap
Arpita Banerjee Apr 2019
Misty little corner
In a blue Room
Calls out to the mourner
Immersed in doom.

Grey furniture makes
Greyer memories
Faults, taunts and insipid
Fallacies.

Blue is the colour of the eye
It's inside is filled with a neon so fly.
The pink tree of life ******
Venus flytrap dissolves in juices.

The eye looks, the eye appalls.
The eye resigns, the eye dissolves.

The pink trap reopens again.
Lust curls into the corner in vain.
The misty blue corner like a white canvas,
Fills with all its colours again.

Pink is the monster,
Blue is the perpetrator,
Green is the debilitator.

And I, the wild colourless mind,
Sits by the wall and conjures this mishap.
All dreams are flies,
And I, the Venus flytrap.
Jan 2019 · 307
RIP Yamuna
Arpita Banerjee Jan 2019
A mutilated corpse in the middle of the city
Frothing at the mouth
A suffocating hostage
A sacrilege
A sacrifice of religious anonymity
You flow and stagnate
Making us all ruminate
What life has created
Is nothing but destruction in its wake

In the hustle of the city
You remind me of pity
Not for you
Not for your desperately dark waters
Not for your absence of tethers
But for me
You remind me how small and insignificant
Is the mind that dares to see
Dares to write
Dares to referee
Against your will to end
No destiny can revoke your decision
No human can make you bend

In your twists and turns
Your tortuitous burns
You are resolute
That the ones who killed you
Will not play the immortal flute
Or their resonating glory
Of conquering what you are

They tried to claim you
They tried to blame you
They tried to reduce and maim you
But from your eternal sleep you may never wake
The city may run
The city may burn
You will support no flora
No fauna
Rest in peace, Yamuna.
The Yamuna is one of the most significant rivers in India, a civilization that is historically dependent on rivers and attributes them a divine status. For the past few months it has been covered in industrial froth and the dark waters of the severely polluted river resemble a scene of heaven, with soft white clouds covering the deceased soul. The poem is a reflection on the ghastly vision of the transcendent glory of the river, whose waters are now a toxic propagator of death. Yamuna could not be brought back, but Yamuna's death is a protest against the vile species that inhabits its banks and turns a blind eye towards its writhing crawling tormented journey with an aching will to survive. Yamuna is lost to us forever. Rest in peace, blessed river. The human race never deserved you.
Oct 2018 · 281
That time of the night
Arpita Banerjee Oct 2018
It's that pretty time of the night
Where I would sometimes lie wrapped up in you
And the smoky sky and the wispy clouds
Would wink down at us
In plain sight
Far away in the oblivious distance
The mountains would call a peripatetic wind
And my heart would respond to your indistinct whispers
In that pretty time of the night
Oct 2018 · 1.1k
You are an Earthquake
Arpita Banerjee Oct 2018
Suddenly it feels numb
My body restive
My words gone dumb.
Muted grievances against the window pane
Are wiped away as insane.
Something inside, yet miles away
Resonates a perfectly eternal dismay.
Sweet are the tears that embrace,
Coursing down the contours of the loving face.


I ask myself,
“Why can I never write about important things?
About Philosophy, Politics and similar meanderings?”
Reasonable things.
Inklings of promising meanings.
Instead I struggle with my tempestuous heart,
Unimportant to the world, yet the most excruciating art.
The pain and the glory
Is the never-ending selfish story
My childish mind can recall.


Despite all this wondrous melancholy,
I always choose to repeat my folly.
Up and about to write I go,
There’s too much heart material to forego.
I lie under those dry lifeless branches,
Sit, stand or walk around in hunches.
Only the grass understands
Under the skin in innumerable strands
Pain is the only conspicuous poison
Reigning the veins, arteries,
Defining the venison.


I couldn’t look at you much
Since you drank from my cup
Travesties of my past break-up
And chose to inflict it upon me again
To see if our old life
Could be regained.
But nonchalance has a way of defeating you.
It looks odd on you,
Like an unaccustomed parvenu.


Love wrecks your heart like the shivering of an earthquake.
When my insides tear, shrivel and menacingly rake.
You realize that your nonchalance was odd indeed.
I was the friend in need
You fled the deed.
That could have saved me
From depression.


Earthquakes don’t mean any harm.
They simple do their job
And leave destruction in the wake.
Naïve.
Nonchalant.
Dilettante.
They are not exactly wrong.
No culpable intentions.
Only humming a deleterious song.
Yet
We seldom recover when the grounds from below
Shake.
I thought you were the soft breeze, drizzling rain.
But turns out,
You are an earthquake.
Jun 2018 · 1.3k
Injustice
Arpita Banerjee Jun 2018
There is a certain injustice
In the way this life unfolds.
The beauties of birdsong,
The tapestry of nightfall,
Eludes the bustling hunger of life
That survives only during the tragic monotony
Of light and days.
Nothing balances the weakness,
Or the misbalance of joy
Giving simplicity to have-nothings
The pleasant sweetness of no loss
And directing every woe, every jealousy,
Towards the one that has.
This injustice unfurls,
Myriad patterns of thoughts;
Where the thoughtless discrimination
Of black, white, yellow, red and brown
And all the spectrum of colors that the rainbow has left unadulterated
Gets tinged in meanings,
Meanings the hues never intended.
Myriad meanings dictated by space
And spaces in time,
Meanings that lurk behind your eyes,
Towards the way I look.
How the two meet to create a wonder
That violates every injustice
Which had crawled on this earth !
That half broken gleam,
The crack between your lips,
When you part them to smile,
Reminds me, why every injustice,
Is a pain worth bearing.
… Or is it?
Jun 2018 · 243
Warfare
Arpita Banerjee Jun 2018
When I first thought of your beautiful eyes
Opening up to my waking lids
I expected a certain compromise
A shield against the impertinence of probability
But you shocked me
Your gaze met mine
And in a moment I knew
That every shield of immunity
Every grain of apprehension
Every instinct of war
Had condensed into a transcendental wonder of powerlessness
There was no armor, no protection
From the raging defeat that permeated both of us
Incessantly
In a moment I knew
There is no victory
Without loss
And loss indeed it was
The loss of consciousness, the loss of pride,
The shredding of each morsel of doubt
But ultimately the loss of mortality,
The defeat of time,
Because when your beautiful eyes
Met my waking lids
An eternity had succumbed
And we lay in the ravages of war.
Alone and victorious
Us against the world
Us against space, time and continuum
Despite the unreliability of victory,
One certainty reigns supreme,
There is a war.
Apr 2018 · 238
Dusk from my Rooftop
Arpita Banerjee Apr 2018
Breathe in the rustling leaves
Hide behind the unwanted plants that arise
From the creaks in the concrete.
Perhaps they have discovered a source of life
Far sublime than the one you dwell in.
The wind, the wind,
The wind blows opposite
To where the bird wants to go.
The wind, the wind,
The happy eucalyptus oscillating in unison
Bidding adieu to the birds in flight.
The wind, the wind,
Making fishes out of thoughts,
Myriad corals and hydrae out of trees.

The water tank
Formidable in its all absorbing blackness,
Contains the most lucid, transparent and fragile,
Of man’s ultimate conquests.
Water.
Which drips from above sometimes
When the sky salivates
At the hot porridge
Of a lifeless mess
Beneath itself.
Birds are like kites,
Leaves are like fingers
Dexterously typing whispers
Like signals to the wind.

Limited is the vision
Where we sit now.
Our backs immersed in the restlessness
Of the occasional writer;
Our eyes fixated on the botchy
Grey watercolor work of the sky.
Everywhere we look, wherever we see,
A band of seven colors break the reverie.
The enthusiastic trees type harder
All leaves in the virulence of a martyr.
Close your eyes.
Step beyond the panorama which
Refuses to bare itself before your soul.
Step beyond the boundaries of the visible,
Into the consolation of the miscible
Voices.

Moribund shrubs,
With faces of the half dead,
Half faced creatures of the unformed,
The cruel monotony of their demands resonate
Wildly with the marginalized.
How in their knots and hunches,
Leaves drooping intoxicated
From the light stolen away by
The more representative, the more vociferous,
Lies the silent acceptance of their abandon.
Here and there taller branches,
Crane towards the sunlight,
Hoping for the winds to listen,
Or perhaps,
For the sun to burn them away first.
Old cranes and their ignominious hoarse throats,
Can only coax words that are coarse.

The dull, blotted uniform grey
Densifies at certain places
A somber sleep indulges the sky.
The winds now,
In their frightful fancy
Scour the floor of your feet
Touching you soles,
Your shoulder, your spirit.
But the playful naught of the wind
Derives insatiable pleasure from
Tickling the trees,
Rocking the eucalyptus,
Till the moonlight washes away
All the eccentricities
Of the frivolous day.

After a joyous revelry,
The tree laughs less
The vigor in its chuckle realizes,
That it is time to retire.
The sky rearranges its clouds
To cast a pallor
Loses the yellow
The grey, for a darker, almost impenetrable
Black.
The water tank camouflages
With our beady eyeballs.
The transparent water fills up
You and me.
Our eyes dilate, staring into the sky
Bidding the dusk good-bye.
Come, live with me, a little
Feb 2018 · 325
The Tiger's Return
Arpita Banerjee Feb 2018
The forests are deep, dark and menacing.
Distance from the plains are ever-increasing.
A desert of bright sand-dunes
Seeps through waterless moons
And shines a lantern on
The hunter’s myriad faces.

Her delicate self, ambushed behind the glorious paw,
Shivers and amazes,
At the ruthlessness of their trances.
Maudlin over her abandoned demeanor,
The departed herd and their mesmerizing candor,
Shoving away her characteristic mirth and laughter,
She voluntarily slips into
The hectoring trap.
A predator in waiting,
For the hunter’s slow clap.

But,
Man the hunter, must have forgotten,
That a tiger remains a tiger
Despite being overwhelmed, or woe-begotten.
And as he nears the trap he built,
To grind her might and get her killed,
He sees,
The sedentary beast transmuted
Into a monstrous manifestation that lay undefeated.
Tearing their flesh,
Destroying their jejune laughter.
With an attack far cathartic
For them to resurrect after.



Remember, the sun, the woods, the stark sea?
Her spirit embodies theirs,
It is she.
The sweltering sun, the rapturous desert,
Vanquish the chains that had imprisoned
Her abounding heart.
Expunging the landscape of infiltrating dirt,
The tiger reigns supreme,
Glorified in hurt.
Take a look at your graceful and powerful sinew
Tell me tiger, what will you do?
Feb 2018 · 332
A Poem for Peace-Making
Arpita Banerjee Feb 2018
When at this seemingly great crossroads I stand
Searching for a martyr to bare his splendid hand,
I devolve and degenerate into
The unspeakable horrors of my mental dynamo.
The unsuspecting spills and splatters
Devour that cone of momentous light,
Butchering all the words that matter,
Fleeting soldiers too broken for a fight.

I saw you yesterday,
Epitome of peace,
Eradicator of dismay,
My inner eye, my soul,
Filled to the brim with condole
You have revealed to me the Universe in Verse.
Darling, don’t call yourself a loathsome *****,
You’re the divine medium that enables
God and I to converse.

It’s been a while since,
My sanity has returned and
Its absence
Irrigates the dusty landscapes of the dark.
The ebb, the tide, the seawall stark
Look fertile enough to dissolve away,
All our nubile tears and allay,
What the telephone or the text message
Couldn’t say.

When sleep crept under my skin,
Like a poison numbing our love with a grin,
Bereaved of my lover I lay defeated.
A solitary portrayal, bared yet conceited.
The evening had caused us to erupt,
Into a familiar wrath, abrupt.


Your poetry was a magnificent, glorious attempt,
To conciliate the dissent,
And ameliorate the contempt.
In me you will find
Mother, daughter, child and mistress,
A juvenile delinquent,
An occasional temptress.
In all these disguises, all these identities,
You will never discover the fragilities,
Of a heart broken by
You.

Forgiveness is what you sell to the demure
For a will to live and the courage to endure.
It wasn’t a cone of light,
You see,
But a shadowy star concealing its might.
In the dark room that had filled my mouth,
You ushered like a beacon from the south,
Resplendent in the innocent purity of existence,
You stripped me of my need for defense,
The morning saw nothing but joy and peace.
Your lovely face, and
My eyes appeased.
Fights with Bae : He gets mad. I get mad. Then he writes a poem for me.
Feb 2018 · 358
I know who killed Me
Arpita Banerjee Feb 2018
I remember the dark room
And me,
A singular broken thing.
My tears perennial
Coursed the ground in all directions;
As the sky of my body shook
Quivering in the precipitation
Of all identities lost.

I remember the dark room
And me,
Lost and disgusted with the self
That could evoke
Such supreme loathing from a being
Who was the altar
To all the love my heart could outpour.

I remember the dark room
Like a cage with a dying bird.
And me,
The dying blind bird
Whom the moon refused to shelter.
It was a carnage of bullets,
A rain of misgiving pellets
Against the visage of my mind.
Mutilated in agony,
I stooped lower
Hoping the ground would offer
What the moon had refused to surrender.

Inside that dark room,
It rained like acid
From the hollow of his mouth
Down to the narrow tunnel of my ears.
The salty bitterness of tears
Was the most sensible, recognizable feeling
That my tongue remembers.

I remember the dark room,
Where he made his dark love to me
Crushing me under the pressure
Of his bulldozing affair.
His venomous tentacles searched insatiably inside
My insides
Only to find nothing…
After all,
The salinity of the tongue,
Was as infertile as the salinity of the soil.

My lungs wanted to abscond my body,
And while fleeing
Spit onto him
The warm blood
Desperate to break
Into the pitch black order of the dark room
Between our legs
In rebellious hues of reds.
Before I could count further revolutions
Of the motionless ceiling fan
He had had enough of his regular persecutions.

It was over.
Crystals of sweat
Overhung over his
Serpentine back.
And in the dark room with the dusty cage
There glistened
A million shards of human debris.
If only you'd ask, who it was that killed me.
Feb 2018 · 235
All my words
Arpita Banerjee Feb 2018
I am in love
With the flurry of sunlight that peeks
Through my half closed door.
I am in love
With the scanty breath that escapes
The rise and ebb of my body.
I am in love
With the sullen poetess inside
Longing for a joyride
Beyond the borders of the outside.

You, me, one lonely dog, a shadowy tree and all my love,
Your vulnerable eyes, shy of the distance.
While the sun and the moon
Keeping playing with your surrealist hair,
I swing enraptured
Lost in the glorious mess
That escapes your mind,
Onto the virtual alphabets of the illuminated screen.

You write for me, about me and
In between your blurts and sudden spurts,
You steal my scanty breath away.
And all my passions sing
That it is time for me now,
To be a muse,
For another’s poetry.

I am not reduced, my artistry intact,
Like the giants which breathed and befell.
Millions of years ago,
They married the earth in a swell.
Now, their auburn heat,
Warms you and me.

I think it is time
That you perhaps knew
All my words
Have finally summoned you.
When your muse becomes a poet.
Jun 2017 · 460
Birds
Arpita Banerjee Jun 2017
The soft distance between Reality and Chimera has finally disappeared…
The birds have chirped at times,
At others kissed my ears.
I long to drink the nectar from the sky,
The elixir of youth, which the world is too weak to deny,
Beneath the silent walls,
Underneath the burrowed boughs,
Where lovers sing songs and Nature endows
Blessings,
That Man is too ignorant to receive,
In pursuit of all those he must deceive.
Love whispers in broken verses,
Through leaves of gold.
Have you ever been desired so manifold,
That it hasn’t mattered to Him,
Whether your skin withers,
Or you grow so terribly old?
The birds feel relentless.
The ruins are bright and colorless.
If you close your eyes,
You escape again to the world you had left;
Of those just sad and bereft.
You haven’t seen yet seen the domes
That are as hollow as crows,
Under which so many of them pose,
Listlessly like clowns.
I smile at their undying variety.
This cave of refuge has no place for our anxiety.
Parrots, pigeons and squirrels abound
Oh! The timid breeze and its mind numbing sound!
Trees and trees, so gigantic and tall.
When I look from below,
I feel so pathetic, so small.
Yet powerless they are,
Because they have no words.
Therefore all that they can do,
Is agree with the birds.
My very first poem ever.
May 2017 · 416
Undisturbed
Arpita Banerjee May 2017
The rain is a harvest,
Of locusts,
Grovelling in the mud,
Igniting the dirt,
With rapid, incandescent movements.

Few of them
Fall on my wet feet
And consummate
The glowless meat,
With Desires.
Which shall remain unfulfilled.

I remember
The last time it had rained,
You were far and oblivious.
Occupied in the obvious.
While I drank the hues
Hoping you could watch
The omnipresence of the drops.
And kissed the ones which lingered,
Later.

The leaves bend silently,
Bowing before the permanence,
Of the present gravity.

Something washes the chains,
Hoping to break the banes,
Yet retires approvingly,
Understanding how unbridled freedom
Can be very
Ungainly.

Soon,
Every sentry returns,
Unperturbed.
The rain leaves us.
Undisturbed.
Back after the rain has evoked an escapist excitement.
Mar 2017 · 1.3k
Whiskey in a Teacup
Arpita Banerjee Mar 2017
Love hides like a tiny insect,
Sometimes it flies analogously,
Then it finds a corner, just perfect,
For it to sit down and ponder,
Over all the people heartlessly rushing hither, thither, yonder.
Their hearts are fragile like glass,
So small, so brittle.
Hopes, both large and little
Reside amidst jungles of desires.
Everything is such a beautifully perplexing chaos,
That Life stares blankly, and admires.
The Beauty
The Beast
The unyielding Duty
Of Being, at least.

Look at me rant ceaselessly,
As my heart pounds harder than my chest can take.
You come here and leave immediately,
And the illusion dissolves; is all this just fake?
How wonderful I feel,
No matter what I write.
The world will never give me a seal,
Whether wrong, or contemptuously right.
Music rushes into my ears, flooding my canal.
Words and words, I think and think, but nothing seems final.
Appropriate is what they appreciate.
Everything else is just another reason to depreciate.
You have taught me all the ways in which I am not great.
Yet show me how to stop, and your temples will cringe with fret,
With regret.
Sing unto my untamable spirit, tales of clipping wings,
Or the melody of how a ruffled feather sings,
And I will break it down for you,
All the nuances,
Of our last rendezvous.

Dare to look into my eyes.
Even if you find nothing but empty sighs.
I am not made for your poetry.
I am drained now, reduced to nothing but grocery.
My earth derailed from its dreams,
Crashes against mirrors, stiflingly decorated with cuts molded against seams.
Fabrics, Feelings and Fragrances, all laced up.
Pour me some of that whiskey.
I have no glass, just a small, pointless cup.
Why so serious?
Mar 2017 · 312
For the love of the Dead
Arpita Banerjee Mar 2017
The clouds cast a spell,
The subversive winds refuse to repel,
The air tastes of garbage,
Like memories wasted in Carthage.
Before you leave,
Twice you return.
Waiting for your soul,
To respond to the wild fern.

My experiences resonate a cheerless glory,
Centuries and centuries have buried your story.
You raise eyebrows at my unadulterated audacity,
At my feminine body,
Which understands not the limits of femininity.
The sun surfaces on my cheeks
Propelling birds from the corners of my eyes,
The lingering touch of grass,
Holds witness to my crass,
Quenching spirit.

A satiated restlessness follows,
Why am I so ****** sensuous?
Why do the leaves shy away from me
When the sky has crawled under my skin?
Why do the confused clouds and I
Have the chaos akin?

You whisper to me,
“It was a time of beauty,
The pomegranate bright red,
The orange trees made of purity,
Of freshly painted green.”
The children have died,
The grandchildren had defied.
Your love for,
Visitors.
But here we are,
Lying side by side,
Writhing in the mysterious tide,
Of all the flowers that bloom,
In the breathtaking pervasiveness of your Tomb.
Conversations with the inhabitants of Mughal Tombs.
Arpita Banerjee Mar 2017
There is a humility in art,
Where simplicity plays its part.
There is an excitement
Of primordial sensations,
Solubility and Insolubility of textures,
And the sublime fluid,
Of deconstructions.

Its’ menace haunts,
A View in the Dark.
The forms are stolid.
Black and stark.

Beyond Black is where
The hues play Hide ‘n’ Seek.
Surfacing,
Resurfacing,
Diving headlong,
Into the absence of a peak.

The smudge and the smog,
In the dizziness of Desire,
Are the nuances of a beige fog,
Perturbed in a Vertical Blue retire.

All the lines ******,
As they refuse to talk,
Questioning the lingering persuasion,
Of the eyes that stalk.

The dawn silence
Answers in a luxuriant red,
When rebellious strokes,
Keep dancing on that fiery bed.


Fragments keep coalescing into a whole,
It pulsates against the senses,
This Illusion of the soul.

This song is bright,
Even in the absence of light,
The Song of Silence,
Portrays an indomitable might.


The Mirage looks back,
Like every familiar stranger,
The unsettling Rejoicing Red,
Such impacts can auger.


Blossom in dark,
Through Dark and Deep,
Rhythm of tones,
A View in a Dream
.
Alone breathes the Isolated Red,
As The Melodies in Grey
Resonate
What the Resonance of Blues
Had left unsaid.


There is a bucolic symmetry,
A revelling immortal mystery,
In The Meditative Silence,
Of
Gopi Gajwani
A poet's ode to an artist.
Mar 2017 · 1.2k
Summer
Arpita Banerjee Mar 2017
Tired yellows on infant flowers
Are like resignation on new lovers.
Rains drop, when the sky blinks;
Fetching tears on abandoned brinks.
The sweaty smell of gestation,
Signifies the mangoes’ manifestation.
I close my eyes and hear
The inevitable drum roll caving near.
Spring reclines under the parapets of roofs,
Crushed like a migrant under our carriage hoofs.
Summer.
The Harbinger of Life.
Possess these seeds and fertilize
Their voluble dormancy
In the flames of insurgency.
Requiem for a silent spring
Arpita Banerjee Feb 2017
Morbid skies
Bid farewell to the clouds;
Catacombs rejoice
As they remove their shrouds.
Slowly silently treads
Night,
Bidding adieu to the fading light.

You close your fearless eyes,
Rest them in your dusk of lies.
I kiss you
On your forehead
The part between your brows
which u said,
Hurts.

And you question the world,
And all that it has ever hurled,
At you,
In spurts.
For the things we lost in the fire.
Jan 2017 · 421
Oceans of the Self
Arpita Banerjee Jan 2017
The waters are dark
Where we are headed.
It's too dark,
To show our spark.

So stop worrying
About the love.
Here we have
Our secret cove.

Where there is no safety
Hold on to me bravely.
Where we are headed towards,
No journey can commence backwards.

I am Home now.
Tear my soul and wear
All your desires out.
My body is but yours,
To flout.

When treacherous storms
Rage against the night,
I am silently reminded,
Of your terrifying might.

There is no protection.
We are all somewhat deaf.
From finding ourselves,
In the oceans of the self.
As we all silently desire things we shouldnt.
Jan 2017 · 558
Soul in the Woods of Words
Arpita Banerjee Jan 2017
My eyes feel very vulnerable in the moment just like yours when you glance upon me. Thoughts of you keep floating in this room like ghosts ready to possess me and throw me down on the bed and make love to me. I think I was right when I told you about the wind touching me in all those places which are rightfully yours. The howling, barbaric, digressive wind who takes your place beside me every night and makes me moan as I sleep. Lover, won’t you claim your mistress back from the embrace of the air, from the dead of the night? I breathe. Silent restless sighs. My eyes wander away into the woods of tall words and unguided, lose track of time and disappear away.

These woods are of dark myriad words
With huge canopies and a mossy floor,
And bogs and mires,
And ancient carcasses,
Undeserving of funeral pyres.

A wooden tree house
Lies atop those forgotten branches
Where resides a queer beast
Called “Soul”.
She is as faithful as she is fretful.
She is worrisome and lonesome.
She has few things,
Just some.

Sometimes,
She bleeds poetry.
And the vacuum of her eyes,
Resembles the tinted void of the skies.
The sunlight could flow through her.
Unadulterated.
Untransformed.
And resurrect more trees
From the decaying pyre,
Of memories.

Pink, green, yellow and blue
Are shades of a silent hue,
Who look at her face
And stare enraptured,
At what she becomes.
A terrible travesty,
Yet a beautiful catastrophe.

The wooden walls of her suntorn tree house, on the corner of bamboo wo(o/r)ds are studded with gems of lichen. Damp, ***** and delicate is the green of the Soul. It is unfriendly out there where she treads undaunted and unclothed, sometimes resting her back against the slithering cold of the disquiet walls. All this so she could lick her fingers and touch the raw of her vertebra. She rubs her bones against defenseless bodies, writhing against each other.

Soul
In the woods of words.

Soul
Bellicose,
Domineering,
Salacious.

Soul,
With a potbelly
And a twisted smile,
That could conceive
Insects
As she spoke.

Yet,
Soul,
Who could
Filter
The Sunlight.

Little flowers dot her face. Wild flowers from weeds she would not let live, so she bereaved them of their flowers. The forests throb with the excitement of her whimsy. The sunlight grins remembering all the ways in which her monstrous glory falls apart in front of him and all the places he could illumine by trapping her. He has trapped her into carrying his s(u/o)n everywhere, but never visit. The winds mock her and play with her hair and perversely caress the belly that nurses the sun’s child.

Poor Soul,
Tiny Soul,
So brutally Young.

Angry Soul,
Humiliated Soul,
Disgruntled
And foul.

Her vulnerable eyes wander away into the woods of tall words and, unguided lose track of time and disappear away.
Jan 2017 · 558
Resignation
Arpita Banerjee Jan 2017
Love,
You have left me miserable.
Jan 2017 · 292
Irony
Arpita Banerjee Jan 2017
And,
It breaks my heart,
And inspires
Tears in my eyes,
All the ways in which
I am still
The person
I have secretly decided
To loathe.
Jan 2017 · 455
Us and Them
Arpita Banerjee Jan 2017
The winds
Have travelled in all directions,
Known and unknown,
For the both of us.

Sometimes it has kissed my lips,
Sometimes licked your fingertips.
Such is the brazen insidiousness
That touches our venality.
At all times.

The Stars,
The Earth,
The wind,
Your mouth,
And my fingertips,
Are all essentially,
The same entity.
Decorated in the nothingness.
Of their ******.
Because sometimes I long for you. And they answer my prayers.
Jan 2017 · 688
The Unintended Landfill
Arpita Banerjee Jan 2017
The horizon lies asleep in a grey blanket
In a sea of myriad figures,
And an unimaginable silhouette.
The engineering of black feathers,
Sets ablaze hazy azure weathers.
The Art Decorates Towers,
Like giants with arms outstretched,
Look down commanding superiority
Over the volatile beauty of the wretched.

Who branded this Pandora’s Box to be garbage?
Stop turning your faces away
Like this is some butchery,
Or an abhorable carnage.
The dogs have repeatedly protested against the injustice
The heavy wind suppresses their voices and entices
A seduction of inarticulate silence.
Brothers who embrace us,
Have known nothing of such malices’.

Only the birds are left unenchanted;
Because they fly too high to be pervaded.
I hear children’s voices
And mothers’ too,
And taste the flies and insects,
And all the devils they shoo;
Because they understand not the complexities of a civilization,
They have never rendered their thoughts,
Never undergone no filtration.
The unconquerable spirit of this world,
Has made them savage,
Their claws curled.
In the heat, in the light,
In the plight
Which brings the cold night.

The sunlight here is too dense to penetrate,
Therefore it unabashedly spills over,
No opening,
Just a gateless emptiness on which to concentrate,
Lives and lives here,
Forever proliferate.
With none to remember their faces,
And no mortal soul to commemorate.

Dust settles upon the fingertips which talk.
This place is deemed unfit,
Unsuitable for a walk.
Yet birds, animals and humans alike,
Have stated their preference of what they like.
This land is perpetually theirs to ****.
Passion resides here,
In this unintended landfill.
This poem is based on the encroachment of spaces by informal settlements. This is also a testament to how the organisms which by virtue of their illegitimate occupation transmute themselves into rightful owners of space.
Jan 2017 · 304
The last one I should kiss
Arpita Banerjee Jan 2017
You are  the  last  one I  should kiss.
Albeit,  life can disapprovingly  walk  ahead,
And times  may  ruefully  run  amiss.
Exhausted  and weak,
Our  hands  will  slip away;
While  the dust  from  my  brow,
Will  make your  temples  sway.
The  terrible travesty  of  our  lips.
You are the last one I should kiss.

When you close  your  light,
Against  the  thick  tirelessness 
 Of  the  night ;
I  feign,  
I  pretend I  might,
Give up my  world,
To  simply  hold you tight.
Against  the  tempestuous glee  
Of  my  heart,
You and I, are nothing  but  art.
It  would be too  painful  to  miss,
This last chance,
Of our kiss.

Afar you live,
Impenetrable  in the naivety  of  distance,
Miles  separate,
Souls that  unite at  an  instance.
I  am  too afraid,
To show you  my  love.
My insides  are  trembling  cold,
Resembling  a featherless dove.
Yet,
Nothing  can parallel  the warmth,
And the  stubborn  bliss,
Of  the  last  one,
I should kiss.

With lighthearted words,
I  wind up my  thought.
Too many  battles
I  have ceaselessly  fought.
But  in your  smile,  
Victory  is mine.
My head tilts  against  my  shoulder,
In a frivolous  incline.
Oh what  a day  dream!  
What  an  impossible desire  it  is!
That you be the last one I should kiss.

— The End —