I return often to the home of my childhood to stare at the bars that once unshackled our souls.
Tag: poem
Waiting.
The poem I was writing died in a cancer-ridden, festering, open maggot-eaten sore. The words I were searching hid in the bottom of the black-water well I was too frightened to explore. That song that defines me weeps in the tender rotting heart of the baby rejected by life years ago. So when…
The birthday.
the smell of incense and flowers and turmeric hung heavy in the air infused with shouts and heady laughter a bride was prepared to leave her father’s home on his birthday. the day long festivities, the last minute rush kept the hearts busy kept the minds away from what was not there: the gentle…
ALIVE
It is dark. although it is only 11 AM. Daylight is on strike the skies are black emitting only bleary light. Rain falls, cleansing, cooling the earth below while fever burns my body wracks my soul. I watch from my lonely window, my thoughts interrupted by the phone delirious, I look at the number triple…
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…
#Aabesh #Kolkata #July2016
I left you my friend I left you, when drunken, uncomprehendingly disdainfully, shamefacedly (isn’t that we were taught to feel) I turned away my friend. Was I drunk? Were you? Was it an accident we cannot recover from? Those questions haunt us tonight as I wait in this cell I have been condemned to…
Tell me a story.
Tell me that story again, the one I heard upon your knee where fairies scattered fairy dust in little girls’ dreams tell me about the boy again, the one with a heart of gold or of the magical forest where the trees led to other worlds I need the healing touch of your stories…
Thoughts from the Bar Library (a sestina)
Here in this Colonial library dwell long dying dreams dreams once ripe and un broken now beaten and shaded purple not mourning their loss untouched by a human soul Ask me where I leave my soul while I sit in this library how I make peace with my loss Do I smile? Breathe heather of…
That poem
There’s that poem somewhere and it’s not lost it’s not grasping at strange hands at the roadside begging to be bought home. Yet I search for it for I know it’s somehow near and when I find it I will find my home.
ipsita banerjee 