Pradip Chattopadhyay

Pradip Chattopadhyay Jul 2017

Reunion

They bring with them the baggage of men
the lost children attempting pathetically
to recreate the aura of time long gone.

If you discount the roughness of skin
travel past the thick hedge of beard
penetrate the silt on the eroded eyes
you can delayer the hardened coats
and get to see faces barely recognizable.

Some were once too close to be missed
their names and all
but most you could hardly recall
and it agonizes your thought
were they in the same class or not.

You smile till your jaws ache
fetching stories from the blue
dazzlingly colored and half true
for they are all in the mood
to joyfully succumb to falsehood.

You could tell from the body language
who's in the backburner
and who on the front page.

Forty years break and make men
but they feign happiness
to be united again.

Pradip Chattopadhyay Jun 2017

Black Canvas

As the first drop fell on me
I looked up at the black canvas
gathering and rumbling ominously.

But there was supposed to be another
not far
but right over my head
to defend me against the weather
pattering insane
between me and the rain.

Did I by any chance
leave my umbrella here, sir?
I ran to the shopkeeper.

We all suffer this predicament
was his smiling statement
losing grip over our mind
letting things be left behind
and then came the mischievous addendum
as if my trouble had inspired his mood

go for good
once you let them go
woman and umbrella

they never again show.

Pradip Chattopadhyay Jun 2017

Mariner

Silhouettes emerge from the night lunar tide
lives still wriggling in their net
ghostly figures from the sea silken wide
reaping riches from the waves in spate.

The night a luminous smile wears
the belly is fired up for a bite
dried leaves would burn under stars
brewing another day under moonlight.

Mariners when not venturing into deep sea
release passions on the shallow shelf
harvest hope though the catch is measly
breathing in the winds the aroma of kelp.

I feel having long belonged to this place
wading breakers in the phosphorus' glow
gathering in my net a strange happiness
craving home when the tide is low.

Bankiput on Sea, April 8, 9pm

Pradip Chattopadhyay Jun 2017

Horse on the Ruins

Here the horse munches the grass
little knowing the trots of yore
for time when lays the bricks with curse
unhinges the strongest door.

Here the horse is tethered to feed
little hearing the neighs of past
for time when crumbles sows a seed
grows new order from soil of dust.

Here the horse lazes in sun
little seeing the shadow's growth
for time when ends a period's run
buries in the walls a lover's oath.

Here the horse walks in a round
little feeling the earth's spin
for time when shrinks the highest to ground
kingdoms fall in heaps of ruin.

On visiting a palace in ruins on a June afternoon, whereupon a lone horse was grazing.

Pradip Chattopadhyay Jun 2017

Juneput

No one goes to the beach anymore.

Through the casuarinas the waves look a long trek
the lovers when from the city take a break
can only hold hands on the sands
wistfully eyeing the sea a mile away
then kissing and making up the day
riding to where the winds take them
spinning yarns along the thickly saline haze
of what could be and will be
downing the present in the crystal pool
placid as the lost yearnings in their hearts.

Juneput, a beach now almost abandoned, April 8 2017, 2pm

Pradip Chattopadhyay Jun 2017

Once upon an absurd time

Where the river abandons herself to the creek
and the mudbank is cratered with crabclaws
waits the old man.

He doesn't know his years
but his ears are a sonic gift
catching the tonal variations of tides
seemingly for eons
evolving with the mangrove map
into a flawless tracker
of how far the moon would recline
for ***** to be holed out
and what shoreline the water would touch
before the shrimps starlight driven
make a beeline for the net.

I encountered him once
in the absurdity of a time
when I was high
and he lowly crouching
was making art by the creek.

Who was the poet
I could never tell.

Jun 2017

Sally A Bayan

A THOUSAND DEATHS

Every death
I have felt, or known,
In silence, i mourn,
Within my breath...

No words come upfront
Just thoughts, preponderant...

I'd feel the freezing cold of an empty space
Feel the absence...clearly imagine a lost face
No smiles, spanning from cheek to cheek
Eyes, seek answers...
suddenly, I'm there by the shallow water of the creek
While some nearby creatures quietly chirp...and squeak
While I......... I could not even speak...

Living,
Is realizing...and accepting
At the right time, they turn brown, the weeds...and reeds,
But, under the water...waiting, growing...are their seeds
Brown ferns...are almost detached from a mossy concrete wall
With a strong current, and wind, they'd be carried...ready to fall

The driftwood lying by the shore...is always wet, but petrified
Brown fallen leaves, on the green grass...no more hold...crisp and dried,
The dead bark of a tree...in pieces...are crumbling...
Merging with the wet earth...in a process of fertilizing
Deep down under ....a fresh spark of life is starting.
All these, remind,
Life and death stand side by side,
That in the midst of death-
Something new is birthed...
When faced with death,
there is always someone's living breath
And, as long as the heart wills to beat
Then, life.....will still exist.

Hundreds, or a thousand times,
We all have died
In the high and low of life's tides,
Physically,
Emotionally.

We remember
Those who have left
Those who have survived..are still around
We think of those who are next to leave,
Waiting for their chests' final heave

---And then, we think of ourselves---

Worry not of our own time
Make each of our remaining days
Be golden, beaming, and bright
With good deeds, and straight pathways

The earth is a moving circle
It makes a round.......as it spins
We try to live outwards....and then, within
Any way we live it...life is an endless cycle.

Sally

Copyright March 23, 2016
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan

***A HAPPY EASTER TO EVERYONE!!! ***

#*** #cycle #circle #thousand #deaths