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maybe
you can
teach me a lesson
that needs
to be learned

about how
i’ve always
been
the fire,
but i
can still
get burned
 Apr 3
guy scutellaro
the x wife calls
tells me the children miss me.
her voice
a mirror of broken glass
fragments falling into
the touch of sadness
from her fingers
the soft laughter
of her eyes like a candle
in the night

tonight
twilight comes to play
whispering in my night
quick as life
I hear the sadness
quick as life
I can hear the regret

I 've wounded you

I can only be
what I was
meant to be

I am the candle without the wick

excuse me, i tell her, i've got to go.
 Apr 3
Sara Brummer
Perhaps there is a dragon palace somewhere
flowing with emerald scales, where ice-colored
sunlight rings in the wind, where soundless
mountains hide their bare faces in purple shadows.

This world, a transparent garment ,
blushes with the seagull’s shriek,
pales with the dove’s soft coo,
brightens with seasons singing
newness, clouds with the heart’s
sorrows.

The music of colors invades
the senses, scarlet sopranos,
jade’s deep base, distant ringing
of silver planets. rainbow banners
that gossip in the wind.

An arpeggio of colored sounds,
each unique in its own tone,
from the lullaby
of sunset to the ****** of
dawn’s glacier blue.

Seeing, hearing, naming,
assembling, each sensation
to its own order of allure.
 Apr 3
nivek
death rides the time zones
forever counting the years
death claims your wrinkled skin
makes subtle daily marks
death is the constant companion
you either hate or love
death is par for the course
a mirage, a door.
~
April 2024
HP Poet: Pradip Chattopadhyay
Age: 63
Country: India


Question 1: A warm welcome to the HP Spotlight, Pradip. Please tell us about your background?

Pradip Chattopadhyay: "After graduating with honours in Geology, I worked in various sectors including railway, banking, teaching, accounts and audit, consultancy and advertising. I feel working in diverse fields have helped me to come across people and characters of many shades and hues. This probably broadened my perspectives and laid the foundation for my poetic creativity. I have a wife of 40 years, and we together have raised a family almost from scratch. We have our son, daughter in law and a granddaughter 5 years old. They have been a source of many of my work."


Question 2: How long have you been writing poetry, and for how long have you been a member of Hello Poetry?

Pradip Chattopadhyay: "I have been writing poems since I was in 8th standard. Initially I wrote in my vernacular Bengali before experimenting with writing in English from the early nineties. There was a hiatus of nearly two decades when I didn't feel like writing. From early 2011, I have been among words regularly snatching time for creative pursuit from my work in advertising. The ***** went up till 2018, my most prolific period, before the curve went down. I admit I'm not writing as much as I would have loved to. Arrival of my granddaughter in early 2019 both added and eroded my urge to write. Most of my time was for her. I started with posting my work on Poem Hunter before coming to Hello Poetry on March 22, 2013 where my first post was 'My Name is Bond'. I post on no other site."


Question 3: What inspires you? (In other words, how does poetry happen for you).

Pradip Chattopadhyay: "The spark that begets a poem is hard to explain. For me, it can be a momentary emotion, an impulse that's too compelling to ignore, a character or relationship, intimate or distant, an event or incident that might appear mundane on the surface, even a sight fleetingly seen. I have been an avid traveller, and moments with my wife during such excursions have produced many of my poems. The river has always been an inseparable part of my life possibly due to my growing up and living in the riverine areas. So the river silted or flowing has been a constant inspiration for my work. There are also other places for my poems. The daily market, slum, a pavement dweller, a daily wager, a salesman, religious beliefs and practices, faith, a journey, ruins, fairytale and so on. I place no limits on subjects; love, relationship, humour, horror, mystery, memories. Often they take the form of storytelling through a blending of experience and imagination. All said, what satisfies me immensely is to be able to write poems for children. I have tried a few trying to fit into a child's mind, a difficult process. Most of the poems rise and sink in my mind. Only a few see the light of ink and paper. Of late I've been a little lazy or maybe a little too busy for retrieving the ones that float for only a while."


Question 4: What does poetry mean to you?

Pradip Chattopadhyay: "For me, poetry is painting collages of life from within and without. The stimuli arise from the interaction between the external and the inner world. It is not to preach but to present what is seen and perceived by the poet, and leave the rest to the reader. You get down at the wrong station and see a reflection that you never thought existed within you. It becomes a poem. For me, poetry is touching upon the entire gamut of human emotions culling them from the simple happenings around us. Bringing out the hidden "more" than what meets the eye. Poetry is making meaningful an apparently simple happening. Even a mundane occurrence may contain the seed of a deeper realisation. For me, poetry happens for all that happens in our surroundings, be they conspicuously visible or not. The poet is an explorer and discoverer."


Question 5: Who are your favorite poets?

Pradip Chattopadhyay: "Rabindranath Tagore occupies a pedestal. He is universal in his dealing of all aspects of humanity. I also love to read Wordsworth, Shelley, Frost, Macleish and Neruda. I am not very familiar with contemporary poets in English language."


Question 6: What other interests do you have?

Pradip Chattopadhyay: "I love travelling and take interest in photography. Mountains attract me more than the sea. I have been to the higher altitudes of the Himalayas including Ladakh and Sikkim. Once I was a good reader but now I have fallen out of that habit."


Carlo C. Gomez: “Thank you so much for allowing us this opportunity to get to know the person behind the poet, Pradip! We are honored to include you in this ongoing series!”

Pradip Chattopadhyay: "I am thankful to Carlo for providing the opportunity to talk about myself and share my views with my poet friends on this site. The Spotlight on Poets is a greatly admirable effort to showcase the work of the many great poets here. Thanks to Carlo again for this truly encouraging initiative."



Thank you everyone here at HP for taking the time to read this. We hope you enjoyed coming to know Pradip a little bit better. I surely did. It is our wish that these spotlights are helping everyone to further discover and appreciate their fellow poets. – Carlo C. Gomez

We will post Spotlight #15 in May!

~
How much will it truly take
Before we realize
That what was written
All those years ago
Is true.

The fires and floods
And hurricanes
Are the flashing lights
Of warning.

The shaking down of cities
Is Gaia’s anger manifest.
The rumors have been
Proven true and
The guns of war are blazing.

What more is necessary
To stop us in our tracks
And make us clearly see
The very small amount of sand
Remaining in our hourglass
ljm
The Bible has been not proven to be wrong
 Apr 3
Eshwara Prasad
Speech is the clumsy distortion of silence.
 Apr 3
J J
Scorched earth dripping from my fingers (you know how sometimes the smell of smoke can save lives?

and how sometimes I'd prefer I slept in)
glistening a while as the pieces crumble into invisibility.

I'm ever waiting

To become what I make, and

I don't mind if you let me think I'm winning the race until I've lost you
completely

If I don't speak please don't take it to heart, my best years are gone but you can have my ghost

If you wish to. I'll be here. Ever writhing, tied to my promise: no longer screaming. My silence

Is the best gift you could ever wish from me, if you knew me well-enough you'd know that to be true.

I've took on so many names and faces and manipulation tactics, at this point I'm a one-man-cult

Victimising shadow's,

I'm kind to myself now but I still feel nothing mostly, but that doesn't have to be your problem
Any longer

Than you make it, I've grown up some with little option otherwise. I'm yours I'm yours I'm yours, for as long as I'm willing to be dragged around.

Fallen weak,

Ever-bleeding as long I can breathe without thinking.
Some memories are better left untouched and some regrets taken to the grave and some people left to crumble themselves to nothing again and again, undisturbed for as long as can be expected.

Don't wait up for me, you'll end up as good as a prayer for the dead to return.
Ow / this isn't an airport(...)
#ow
 Apr 3
Benzene
I want to leave this boisterous town of sadness and hate,
And shift my body to where my soul resides.
A place where I can hear the cascading waterfall
and see the serene green view of the evergreen forest.
The place which makes my heart flutter with the sound of the silent seashore.
A place where the morning begins with the soothing call of a peacock, and ends with the resplendent reflection of the moon in the lake.
The lake, in which I can see fishes breathing and witness nature healing.
A place where I can find my solace and peace.
I want to leave this boisterous town of violence and rage,
where symphony of honks and shouts fill the air.
And shift my body to where my soul resides.
 Apr 3
Mike Adam
Talk of Tomorrow
As if it were a
Thing

A clay malleable,
Made to some Will o'
The Wish

No tomorrow is
Nor can be,

Tomorrow, Yesterday
Cannot exist.

Just This
Now
Synapse
Arm
Pen
 Apr 3
RJW
the clock struck midnight
and the darkness stood still
in the hidden corner, a flicker loomed
casting pale drops of light
on creatures hibernating in dreams
as if to crack the doorway
illuminating a night path
through thin veils of waking
into the watery ebb of pink yellow
bleeding into the clouds
opening the eyes of the sky
to see us, nesting underneath
in the hollows and mountains of the earth
sweet bird of budding april's pretty wing,
sat in the willow where the catkins grow,

enchanting like the river's winding flow,
small chatterbox that always loves to sing,

the blossoms kiss the sky whose wandering
finds vast crusades where fleeting warriors go,

true to their loves e'en in the bleakest snow,
or some princess who finds a sapphire ring.

enchanted lands, the bird sings in the tree,
so long forgotten once found near and far,
where streams wind yonder where the bluebirds play,

on honey branches by the windswept sea,
as if they whispered underneath a star
of princely gold the beauty of the day.
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