Lasting Ink - Hello Poetry

Dec 2015

bones

There once was a world
that stood on it's head

and wriggled and jiggled
and shook out the dead

and shook off the living
and all of their stuff

'til nothing was left
in it's pockets but fluff,

'til nothing was left
but a world upsidedown

that shakes in the wind
as it's spinning around

like a ragged old lady
with thin and threadbare

clothing she's no
longer willing to share..

Dec 2015

bones

Boxed..

And who then would have told
of this end anyway ?
Not you, you leapt first and furthest
always, and recklessly that last time;

few enough I think remember now,
but I knew you when
we were skywide open and
kin to the blowing wind;

we were brothers you and I,
two of a different kind, we ran
and we jumped like suicides, leaving
dust trails like others leave wealth,

there were days I believed
boxes were built only to be
strung together as freight trains,
god knows we rode all those that were;

but lately I see them used
by people frightened of
freedom also, for to
hide their worried lives inside...

Dec 2015

martin

Swimming Stags

cold today
wind from the North

sit by the fire
read a bit
then fix the door

dog walk, pull my coat tighter
carry a notebook
pretend I'm a writer

stare at the wall
the wall of the cave at Lascaux
Swimming Stags
see what the cave man saw

type 'Swimming Stags Lascaux' into your search engine

Nov 2015

spysgrandson

Guernica, in technicolor

brushstrokes, some broad,
some as narrow as one fine hair,
are often red

scarlet and scattered
across the canvas, splattered
against a crumbling wall, where,
for no rhyme or reason, the artist
may place a wilted wreath of flowers,
pallid, yellow

horses and people, babes
and the ancient not spared
their share of the crimson cream
the painter heaped munificently
on their mangled remains

Paris, Beirut, Yola yet to be painted
but there is still time: in its abundance
someone else will need only lift a hand
to spill the ubiquitous blood

our palettes do own other hues
black for charred crosses, white,
the lightning streaked screaming sky
but  none so plentiful as the red
none so plentiful as the red

Oct 2015

Sjr1000

From The Shadows/ The Poet's Lament

I live my life
in the shadows,
the disconnected hours,
observing all I see.

I've learned to hide,
bide my time,
while time keeps passing all around me,
this set in
not today or yesterday,
but somewhere else along the way.

Eventually
that which protects us
defeats us in the end,
I become the naked dreamer
quaking
in the quad,
it all begins to strangle me.

Nature,
Open skies
open air,
this room
this mind
a suffocating refrain,
one wonders how it became this way.

I live my life in the shadows,
the invisible man for all to see,
take off my clothes,
shed my ego,
there is nothing left of me,
but this sacred breath,
these words that make no sense,
I'm the one that you don't see,
but I see you all around me.

I'm singing the Poet's lament,
the whispering voice,
you hear it in the shadows,
the figure passing by
out of the corner of your eye,
the one you can't quite grasp.

I live my life from the shadows,
the light is on the other side,
One of these days,
the dawn will call my name.

Oct 2015

Pradip Chattopadhyay

Cobweb

thirty years is too thick a cobweb
says the Shepherd at the Bourne
though I know you're looking for her youth
and you aren't alone
how old was she? twenty?
red bindi and sari on head
newly wed ravishingly pretty
but no negatives I'm afraid
a few come up these creaking stairs
love's martyrs long survive
hold fore me their hearts bare
count on my archive
like you they seek that fateful face
where time stands evergreen
lost path invites one more retrace
a rewind to youthful skin
I tell them time's too thick a cobweb
with you I too grieve
sorry sir I have no negative
nothing's left to retrieve.

Shepherd at the Bourne: a reference to Bourne & Shepherd, the oldest studio in Kolkata

Oct 2015

Pradip Chattopadhyay

Weathered

My relation with her
inhabits a silent space,

you don't need to talk much
below the ocean's surface,

it's like a rest after your work is done
an earned breather after a long run.

Now it's holding hands and swimming together
having seen all the weather.

Mar 2015

Pradip Chattopadhyay

I should converse more with my son

I should converse more with my son
stop him recede wider from me
should lose no time to hold him strong
we haven’t exchanged much recently.

Our morning tea must find me a way
to draw him to talk and look at my eyes
seize I must some time every day
so I succeed after a few failed tries.

Our dinner shouldn’t pass silently dull
but spiced with jokes and diary of the day
must break laughter the hardening lull
and ensure on the table a longer stay.

I should converse more with my son
grab all the time could be together
days are shorter and crying to be gone
but the bond we leave must be worth a treasure.

Mar 2015

Pradip Chattopadhyay

With nothing to pass

I put a lock on the clock
tied its hands with rope
if that made time still
halt its fast gallop!

There was an eerie silence
as lay dead the tool
with time now my slave
I could take it cool!

With there nothing to pass
I felt the burden off me
to lie back and relax
lead a life sans hurry!

For a while it seemed so nice
my time was what I liked to be
reading and writing and dreaming
walk hourless freely!

But soon boredom got me
grew a void of unease
a dead clock wasn’t that good
closed time killed my peace!

Time’s passage the timekeeper speaks
so we aren’t complacent too free
but keep the flow somewhat disciplined
by following a tool friendly!