For today’s prompt I have taken a poem that I love and turned it on its head. The poem is in Bengali by Rabindranath Tagore and I have given a rough translation after my work for reference. There is joy there is birth, the rejoicing of a farewell There’s also unrest, there is pain, hopelessness…
Tag: #napowrimo
Significance #promptday2 #glopowrimo
Ghosts swimming over the city snarl and growl in flashes of light soothing the wails of the new-born the unused words of the thesaurus. In the flesh of murdered milk in bloody shadows that speak only to me and the centauride that will not be taught the insignificance of our existence.
To the crow
I used to hate crows, scavengers of the earth squawking, snatching, swamping the skies when one died, shot by that stray bullet frightening us into the house. But then you said that crows were good that when they eat the food offered to the dead it is as though the dead have returned. Since then…
To the stranger in the dark.
Faces change over time grow up and move away But eyes? Eyes remain the same, windows to all that was. I think I see you cross the road our eyes meeting only for a second to move on, obscurity measured in a single glance. Maybe you too thought I was someone you knew from another…
Old wounds
There was a wound near the ear That never healed. Each evening I would change the dressing The blood never stopped its flow. He would not wince, even As I applied disinfectant trying To be as gentle as possible, As softly and as far as I could go. His eyes glistened with pain and tears …
Abandoned.
A little girl sat on the swing set When I took the dog before dawn. I almost missed her quiet face But the moon was still in form Her face was streaked with tears In her hands she clutched a cloth With which she tried to cover her face Fear upon her visage wrought. I…
No poem today
I will write no poem today I will just chill, not fret about meter And spend the morning Nursing my coffee and Sudoku. I will not write a stanza today No deep thoughts to construe, No yearnings to express… No quatrain or haiku. I will binge-watch a TV show About haunted houses or spies And…
The poem I was writing
Died a senseless death The body waits In the crowded funeral homes For the rich In lime covered mass graves Of the poor Tortured and twisted In the agony of birth Breathless and blown By gathering storm clouds The cadaver awaits A decent burial.
ipsita banerjee 