picturepoetry – ipsita banerjee

Faces

Who is it I see looking at me From that empty canvas? Is it that teen, staring vacant Her face marked and scarred From the acid of depraved lust? Or is the child raped and cast aside Her little pleas for help, a prayer On every mother’s lips? Can it be the woman sitting alone…

To Isha

Words are superfluous They roll off my tongue Like the sweat on a labourer’s back Toiling in the midday sun. Over and over words failed me When I first held you on my breast Unimagined pain, unbridled joy As you wailed your first little breath. Words were never adequate Watching you evolve From tiny steps…

The moon knows

the moon hides not the ravenous drooling of the malevolent dark the moon shies not from the claws at her face that found their mark the moon only waits waxing and waning naked and stark watching lest our souls are consumed by night’s hard casque for the moon knows only the moon knows that the…

I wait

Like the pale purple tinge of sky that you missed when you watched the sun set over the sea. Like the rounded stone on the river bed that you stepped on as you crossed the turbulent stream at dawn. Like the lines of unstructured verse you do not read but say you…

The wedding

The veil is lifted a shy bride waits a hint of a blush a prelude to the day The guests are waiting the groom strides in a processional overture let the ceremonies begin. A whispered prayer an union of eternal souls whispers of ‘forever’ the recessional explodes. The guests scatter in the wind soothed for…

lady

This lady stalks the skies tonight masked by the wail of creatures pretending to be human. Bury yourself in a scrapbook. Quick, before she makes you hers and hers alone.

Home

I return often to the home of my childhood to stare at the bars that once unshackled our souls.

Snapshots

I remember the roughness of the grass ‘neath my feet as I chased your laughter your tiny steps perfectly matched by the largeness of the man whose fingers you clutched safe in your toddler world. Alas, the footsteps become silent the hand falls away All that remains are the memories of steps once taken Trapped…

What if?

What if I told you the moon is made of naphthalene chewed at the edges? What if I told you dark clouds lash venomous rain clawing at its face? (the moon itself is scarred by the cold evil it spawns its wounds never to heal) What, then, if I told you that…

What if…

End of argument

“What do you see in the same old moon, full of the stale stench of sweat and gloom, surrounded by the unhealthy halo of bitterness it’s unable to outgrow? Look at it,”you laugh, “swimming naked in the dark, vain and unperturbed by your silly emotions, your thoughts… indifferent, even calloused, like a rotting roti hung to dry…

The welcome.

The clouds brushed my face hungrily as I sat nose pressed against the tiny window pane of that plane bringing me to Goa. The wisps of white leapt and played, snapped at my heels and merged with the greys: forming un-forming…sunlight so blinding like packs of wolves howling at the sky like the stray dogs…