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Nat Lipstadt Jul 2020
“of late, I have been falling in and out of love with words.” (Pradip)

Dear Pradip,

yeah had them symptoms too, pizza and penicillin, lost my sense of taste and smell, but neither helped, guessing gets tougher, when older, all those associated, assorted, amazing never ending, abracadabra, baptismal-bathing-broadening, buttered-up jobs & responsibilities when your suddenly taller by a new generational addition to the family tree, which means much more concerning, burning worrying words, you dare not say aloud, cause Shiva is too interested, and has too many arms, in interfering with your many small pieces of composure in pandemic days.

Sorry, buddy got no solution, maybe rubbing alcohol, maybe hard liquor, prayers on knees to a 57 variety of deities, try a different temple, start the week on a Wednesday, learn to rhumba, practice meditation way out loud, be annoyingly concerned bout everybody else, offer to do all the kids homework, buy the wife a new dress so you can have an argument regarding wasting money, so you can kiss and make up, heck and ****, you could even write crazy words in any order your personal dictionary commands, reorganizing them in reverse order, and then slapdash them together and call it stew,

don’t matter as long as you got the jaw jawing, the eyes winking, the people looking at you like you gone cuckoo mad, tell your children how much you love them in the middle of day, wave to a neighbor across the street, the gossipy one who always spying on you, sing some cowboy ***-on-little-doggie lullabies, interspersing a Yellow Submarine, croon A Long and Winding Road, and Do Not Forget to include Let It Be, preach with a whang damnastic fever to the street peddlers, then ask for a better price, by now your not-so-well repute will precede you, everyone be offering a cool drink, or hot tea, fresh paneer, really big discounts, the most comfy chair, asking what else ya need, tell ‘em a pen and some paper, please, and everyone will be relieved! cause you back to merely, plain, ordinary crazy, simply composing that wonderful poetry you love to
w r i t e
and everything is
r i g h t
in the world.

other than that, got no consoling words. Sorry.

Sincerely,

The Natster
Nat Lipstadt Apr 2020
~one more, for Pradip~

you write me a simple irony
of steely truth

love to know how you do that thing you do...

every time you notate upon a scribble I discard,
you manage to extract the kernel, the original seeded sin,
and in a single sentence, summarize so much better
than all my itinerant beggar-thy-peer essaying.

and it’s 3:49am here in the epicenter and
only
335 anonymous-to-me died yesterday,
they died unmedaled,
(does that include the ER doc who committed suicide?)
a fact to be sadly celebrated and sadly commemorated
only in charts and graphic
graphs,

but I distract myself.

for what needs saying is this:

my sense of what you wrote, modest old poet,
the title of this very poem
is best internally directed, attached,
as an appliqué yellow star, proudly worn, when sewn upon the chest
of the man who authored it...


<>
4:03am Wed April 29
in the epicenter middle
nyc
<>
^Pradip comments on
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/3809276/its-700pm-do-you-hear-where-my-ny-city-is/

“ The most medalled men have no medals to show.”

<|>
another commission fulfilled,
but sleep still doesn’t come for in these pandemic days,
the notion of a time to rest
is a casualty too
what you leave when you’ve left (mending the tormenting silence^)
 ———————————————————-—————————-


your words rock me, like an old time preacher,
mending, begetting, tormenting,
fire and brimstone you sinner,
if I don’t quit this life of loving words, saloon music,
guitar picking in low down dives,
liquoring and sinning,
choosing to choose poorly,
never and always thinking about the songs
you’ve left behind unplayed, pained

got the sun and the rain and all afternoon,
to contemplating leavings,
the crumbs you let drop,
the missteps took and missed,
drank too much, hurt too hard,
the silence of my history, it’s renting,
unrelenting, tormenting, lamenting and such,
those loves, labors that don’t amounted much,
a slow rush to fall, to count it all

you say, always time to mend what life
has rent, if you spend the time thinking,
‘bout what you gained, what you lost,
the net of both added and subtracted,
what you got, what you gave,
the sum of your begat,
a life’s story, to tell,
of life’s misgiving, unforced errors, and
crimes committed only you know

not sure what the total bill due gonna be,
combining the costs of the here,
the now, what was and wasn’t,
what was said, not believing but yet singing,
so when the check comes,
the summation of your life’s calculations,
get to add on a tip, a good-as-gold saying
it’s time that can mend, but knowing the true costs of time,
maybe, maybe not...

<§>
                         let  them reap what you have sown,
                    for the great designer will surely inquire
       what everybody knows is the forecast standard to be met,
     it is not what, how much you got, but what you begat, when,
                                              you’ve left
^ Pradip  “it’s not what, or how much you got, but what you begat, when, left...Indeed sunrain, whenever I ask myself the question, I am greeted with a tormenting silence. But there's always time to mend.”

let them reap what you have sown,
for the great designer will surely inquire
what everybody knows is the forecast standard to be met,
it is not what, how much you got, but what you begat, when, left



https://hellopoetry.com/poem/3764455/give-yourself-away/
Nat Lipstadt Feb 2020
oh no!

another fateful overlooked poem title,
ensconced in a message not initially gripped tight enough,
the entitling command, the wish, this commish-on,
angry for having been ignored, overlooked,
calls the poet out, what, a deadline missed again?  

again.

an inherent compliment contradiction,
the well wisher, wanting an enlarged heart, like mine,
is wise in the ways of double meanings,
knows full well, that the enlarged heart is burdensome,
that weight of those afflicted with enlarged hearts,
walk with the stooped bent of responsibility.

so I write and weep, weep and write,
what a thing to wish for, defer it, deter it,
and yet here, I affirm it!

for in my possess is a sure and certain knowledge,
that a new born girl, has surely already stretched the measurements
of Pradip’s own heart’s boundaries, no wishing necessary,
a natural occurring phenomenon, a first grandchild grasped,
raised up to the light on high, a chemical reaction, an eclipse so
when the body’s brain commands it minions,
ordering messengers, sent to every province, to every *****,
piercing every cell’s shell with a kingly commandment scroll:

heart! all body parts!
grow, enlarge, engorge, for a fearsome wonderful injection of love arrives, a new baby will heartily enlarge, make room for more.


the wonderful burden of love.



<>

a commission satisfied. perhaps I will sleep tonight...

Feb. 10, 2020
2:04 pm
Nat Lipstadt Oct 2019
“when down dreaming ups” (Pradip)

a mysterious phrasing he sent,
the meaning devolving, beyond the obvious,
but slow like, as the mind turns and tastes
these words in different places, ways

when I lay me down to keep,
the dreaming up-ramping, the poems,
don’t know of absent muses, inspiratory lacking,
tongue tied eyes, all banished from the dream world,
where the poems come more than regular,
uninhibited and restless,
begging to be easy birthed,
oh please, oh please!

when down we lay,
up tempo do the brain’s creation ports
turn fiery red, agitated, masses of
tired, poor poems, yearning to be free
disembark all seeking a touchstone statue
to set them free to liberty

my speaking eyelids rapid typing,
placing whole writings in cracks in
the wailing wall, on my own temple mount,
where Hindi letters become stick figures
dancing praises to the lord and  stars and
crescendo crescents interlock their tips,
until one dream complete is downloaded
to moistened, ready lips, for I am up, up,

from my down dreaming





10/20/19  8:54am
Poetoftheway Oct 2019
“when down dreaming ups” (Pradip)*/

a mysterious phrasing sent,
the meaning devolving, beyond the obvious,
but slow like, as the mind turns and tastes
these words in different places, ways

when I lay me down to keep,
the dreaming up-ramping, the poems,
don’t know of absent muses, inspiratory lacking,
tongue tied eyes, all banished from the dream world,
where the poems come more than regular,
uninhibited and restless,
begging to be easy birthed,
oh please, oh please!

when down we lay,
up tempo do the brain’s creation ports
turn fiery red, agitated, masses of
tired, poor poems, yearning to be free
disembark all seeking a touchstone statue
to set them free to liberty

my speaking eyelids rapid typing,
placing whole writings in cracks in
the wailing wall, on my own temple mount,
where Hindi letters become stick figures
dancing praises to the lord and stars and
crescendo crescents interlock their tips,
until one dream complete is downloaded
to moistened, ready lips, for I am up, up,

from my down dreaming





10/20/19  8:54am
Nat Lipstadt Sep 2019
~for Sreetama Chatterjee, granddaughter of Pradip Chatterjee~

A first time grandfather observes,
“that one path ends, a new one begins”

A philosophy, an observation shared,
one that I am, in multiplicity acquainted

Sources inform me that Sreetama is
of Sanskrit origin, the meaning is
“gift of god”

how wonderful are the mysterious coincidences in this world!

For my Hebrew name,
Netanel, given to me at my birth, the meaning is
“gift of god”

Sources inform me that name of Sreetama has given you
the desire for creative, artistic or musical expression
in an original way.

I can pretend to be surprised, but who would I fool?

you, granddaughter of my friend, an esteemed poet,
Pradip Chatterjee,
who delights in you,
you, an exquisite of the small
you, so powerful already,
that he has shelved his writing,
(temporarily I suspect)
to tend to your upbringing

You, so powerful already,
you, will break his will, command his attention,
demanding, bringing out his issuance of a thousand poems,
all revealing and reveling in your mastery,
over him!

You, so powerful already,
in secret concert, listening secretly,
already composing silently, smilingly,
awaiting the arrival of your fine,
very fine, motor skills,
to grasp, to own!
his writing utensils, empowered,
with the strength of a child insistent

You, feeling the energy of wisdom within those instruments,
sparking a commencement and a continuation of
the generational gift residing in your senses

I await those artistic creature creations
most impatiently...

—————————————————————————————
“the charming patience is the wait time tween your visions of
the excellence of the common, the exquisites of the small,
the delights of loss and pain translated into mercurial milestones,
poems.”

https://hellopoetry.com/poem/3299027/pradip-im-a-charming-man-with-a-fragile-patience/

<>
छोटी की उत्तमता
[ *~ बालिका श्रीतमा चटर्जी के लिए कविता ~
]

प्रथम बार दादा ने महसूस किया,
"एक पथ पड़ाव तक पहुंचता है, एक नया प्रारम्भ होता है"

एक दर्शन, एक अवलोकन साझा करता हूँ
जिससे मैं भली भांति परिचित हूँ| कई गुना

स्त्रोत बताते हैं कि शब्द 'श्रीतमा' संस्कृत मूल का है,
जिसका अर्थ है - "ईश्वर का आशीर्वाद";

दुनिया में होने वाले रहस्यमय संयोग, कितने अद्भुत हैं!
मेरे हिब्रू भाषा के नाम - 'नेटानेल'

जिसे मेरे जन्म के समय, मुझे दिया गया
उसका भी अर्थ यही है - " ईश्वर का आशीर्वाद"

मुझे, सूत्र बताते हैं कि 'श्रीतमा' नाम ने तुम्हे
रचनात्मक, कलात्मक या संगीतमय -

अभिव्यक्ति की इच्छा दी है
बिलकुल नैसर्गिक और मूल तरीके से।

मैं आश्चर्यचकित होने का नाटक कर सकता हूं,
लेकिन आखिर मैं किसे मूर्ख बनाऊंगा?

तुम, मेरे दोस्त, एक सम्मानित कवि,
प्रदीप चटर्जी की पोती हो

जो तुम्हे देख कर प्रसन्न होता है
तुम, छोटी हो, श्रेष्ठ हो, उत्तम हो

तुम पहले से ही इतनी खुशनसीब हो कि,
उसने अपने लेखन को रोक कर दिया,
(अस्थायी रूप से, ऐसा मेरा मानना है)

केवल और केवल
तुम्हारी अच्छी परवरिश के लिए

तुम पहले से ही इतनी शक्तिशाली हो,
तुम उसकी इच्छाशक्ति को मोड़ सकोगी

उसके ध्यान को अपनी ओर खींचकर
अपनी महारत से उसके भीतर

हिलोरें मार रही हज़ारों कविताओं को
रहस्योद्घाटित होने का अवसर दे सकोगी

तुम पहले से ही इतनी शक्तिशाली हो,
तुम चुपके से धीरे धीरे सुन रही हो

तदात्म्य स्थापित कर रही हो
चुपचाप रच रही हो, गढ़ रही हो

इंतज़ार कर रही हो, समय आने का
अपनी मांसपेशियों पर नियंत्रण होने का

जिससे तुम लेखनी को पकड़ सको
सुदृढ़ता के साथ नियंत्रित कर सको

कुशलता से उसका उपयोग कर सको
एक बच्चे की ताकत और जिद के साथ|


तुम उन उपकरणों में निहित शक्ति महसूस कर रही हो,
जो शुरुआत से ही निरंतर तुम्हारे भीतर,

स्फुलिंग उत्पन्न कर, तुम्हारी इन्द्रियों के भीतर मौजूद
पीढ़ीगत उपहार को जारी रखते हैं

मुझे तुम्हारी उन कलात्मक, जीवंत कृतियों का,
इंतजार है, अधीरता के साथ, हाँ, पूरी अधीरता के साथ|


Many thanks to Shiv Pratap  Pal for his translation, advice and exquisite attention to the smallest detail.
Nat Lipstadt Aug 2019
again, madness!

one eye tears, why must you return to the old familiar,
the poets prescribed, already so well covered?

why?

must. it is the only shade of my voice that persists,
all else vanity.
these are words handily eye-read, given.
all I need do is “repeat after me” somewhat well,
and fill in the blanks.
<>

he writes me, in another place, to another name, describing himself:

“I'm a charming man with a fragile patience.”

no sir, Muses order me to disagree,
you are a fragile man with a charming patience!

your fragility is a royal hallmark, embedded in every scribing,
this human indentation, always well hidden, on the underside of the wine cup, the base of the candlesticks, the inside of the wedding ring of your tying allegiance to the humbled humanity.

the charming patience is the wait time tween your visions of
the excellence of the common, the exquisites of the small,
the delights of loss and pain translated into mercurial milestones,
poems.

here I cease, for overly long praise is a river too long, no end in sight,
making great and wide just another poem.
<>

But!
he writes me, in another place, to another name, describing himself,
yet again:

”A thousand poems I don't write, but they get written
in my heart.


A thousand!
ours is the patience fragile, your innate screen that filters out

these thousand forbidden unwritten,
needs a cleaning, open the tiny apertures and release them, for we are the humans needing, for the breathing of your fragile charm.

<>
the Muses do thee attend.
their patience neither charming or fragile,
reminding me, they too have a thousand.

a thousand other ears into which to whisper that
imperative imperial command,
and they river no delay...
the days has come when I can only write of others, this is the only shade of my voices that survives.
Nat Lipstadt Apr 2019
Pradip is newborn (impossible wisdom)

“a new day, a new chance for my soul... to heed
a small voice ... to give flowers, to plant new seeds.
to not trample on wildflowers and unwanted weeds...” Sally

“Sweet baby
with your head on my shoulder
I'm no more growing older...” Pradip

~

the unpredictability and randomness of the winds,
seed carriers, of small voices, yearning to be heard,
powerless in appearance only, for within are powers superior heroic,
           who can grow others       who can feed    
                             who can sustain multiple living creatures

each seed unique, a poem composed and complete,
authored by precedents, authorized by predecessors,
utilizing the cocoon of soil and sun,
rainwater from space and deep driven to
the clear milk of underground railroad rivers,
to give nurture to its revisional generational code

these new children of an old mix,
are quiet lifesavers giving proofs positive,
that those who will one day grow old,
with deep gnarled roots, are most capable
of finding ways of manufacturing fresh youth whim within,
to those who give babies homage, in attendance

this then the newborn miracle, the new seed,
wind borne, replants itself in old soil,
taking but more so giving,
injecting bits of vitality into its arterial ancestry,
how can this be?


I do not know the why or the how,
but am evidence of the therefore,
and the thereafter, of impossible wisdom




7:07am 4-5-19 a newborn poem for poetry passing grandparents
the dawn here is hours behind their sunsets, this then, a refreshment for the
wisdoms of their evening prayers
Sally A Bayan Jul 2015
~ ~ ~ A POEM FOR PRADIP ~ ~ ~
(a repost)

In these early hours of evening
when sun has dipped down, hiding
cold has set in, warmth cooled by wind blowing,
your words haunt me, left me pondering.

For a sunshine poem, you asked,
but how? when it is now dusk,
there is no sun,  only dark to show,
not even a moon aglow.

All i see are fiery dots of light, shimmering
in the garden, i am alone, wondering
I do not see them closely
yet, i feel they could be friendly.

They are luminous lanterns, seemingly beaming,
could these suffice to keep your flame burning?

In the widening dark, they bask
to perform their given task
carrying drops of hope with their sparkles,
scattered ***** of chances, radiated by lighted candles.
They are so tiny, collectively bright,
wandering, even on a moonless summer night...

I have not one sunshine poem for you,
instead, thousands of Fireflies, i offer you
to let their light shine  upon your  face
dry every bit of sadness, leaving not a trace.
to dry tears hidden
ease your shoulders laden.

I wish i could see your smile
hug you, even just for a while
wear your sombrero
'til day after tomorrow.


I pray my words have beamed enough,
to save your day, to see you through...


F I R E F L I E S

by

Sally



Copyright  September 2014
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
***This is not much, Pradip,  done in a hurry,
      but, I hope you like it...***
(written in September, of 2014)
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