As the creeping doubt
Draws shadows of trees
Onto my mind’s canvas,
I silently look away,
Wishing the water’s reflection
Could distract me.

Rippling across the surface;
Distorting what I see.
The inkwell’s matte mirror
Changing what I’m to be.

It was a sweltering sunny day on Sunday
Sitting on the wooden chair behind the Window
Painting the canvas & realizing that She's In thought of one
As if that one could portray like a Rainbow,
So that,
She tries hard
In good faith
If only her attitudes cling
Even to the small things!

rioting crowd in the east-village squire,
crowds part in a brooding haze,
and a dice rolls across the years, stumbling
oh he painted himself a fool, luck hangs blasé

brush and crayon trace over lush ruin as etruscan love
pierces this thin veil of civilisation,
once coloured in imprisoned
years of ambition

and irony is warm and it glows 'cause
time is a conundrum, a fate, a paradox – and thoughts
are irrelevant in this oak-veiled cage,
for when the unimpressionist sings,
dreams start to sway

in a vaulted room, basalt
vases hold flowers,
****** bare of fruitful love
by the unimpressionist,
who holds pride and flattery high above

and outside the cage, the artist lifts his paintbrush
oh he dreams all too aimlessly, alight with naïveté

and as he pulls down jewelled ashtrays and the night-sky of tangier, he takes another smoke,
little artist doesn't paint for himself
statued replicator of somebody else

"ignorance is always so selfless and so kind"

his words form an echo at the end of his time
disapproval lingers in this great artful lie,
he's been played sideways, been handled and pawned
now the unimpressionist hangs
trapped, feeble
warned

I write nothing but pain
They said : insane
I write nothing but paint
They don't appreciate my paint
They saw it as a small crescent
But, It will turn into a full moon

One early morning, when I was out in my garden,
I met a gorgeous Monarch butterfly dazzling.
I exclaimed...you are so bright and beaming,
will you help me paint my country with your wings so shining?
We have shades but they are all synthetic!!
I want your colours as they are organic and enduring.

Cyclones, floods and cataclysm have washed-out the beauty of my land..i sighed!
I shall paint your land with my elegant wings...he replied!!
Paint my land with the colours of the tricolour.

The top may be painted with bold saffron.

The pure white colour of yours may then flow through the heart of the land .

My friend, paint the final part with the soothing hue of green.

And at last, splash a colour of your choice to cover up all the dents and fungus that had cropped up in our hearts for so long.
These are our colours..my countrymen must not forget
We are one and we stand united!

The Monarch smilingly said, "I shall do what you say, but promise me to keep them the same as I start painting from today".🦋🦋🦋🦋
Bina Mukherjee

We dance on the glass prisms
Below us burns the fire
The flick of a romance or love on the edge
A half open door...death or life?

I never understand the world
The reality where we live
It's like a crooked satire or a hallucination of walking bodies
Before they have erased all memories
Of their own faces.

But those who deny forgetting their own faces
And look at the mirror every day,
See age crawling through the naked bodies
A man and a woman in bed..then their warm skin at midnight on the brink of extinguished immortality.

Poetry comes to me in those moments
Of laughter, of a feeling after love making
An emptiness, a desolation yet hunger for everything
That is when beyond our dreams our shadow comes and dance
On the prisms.
Like Pygmalion, I create my own woman of beauty in silence.