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…
Tag: poetry
The five senses
Winter came early this year. Across the city comes the smell of smoke and naphthalene as boys light fires and sweaters shake themselves out of trunks. The moon swims among the clouds as I walk the empty streets, the pavement dwellers are gone, they huddle behind doors deep inside the narrow streets where moonlight never…
Book Review: The Traveller Series
Tiffany Teoh’s book, “The Traveller Series… in forty-one poems”, is, in many ways, a traveller’s diary in verse. No, it does not give you specific dates or locations, but it is filled with beautiful images of nature and lines that are thought provoking. Many a time as I read this collection of poems, I found…
Rituals
Tired of reality I search in verse for words that falter bend and break untouched by years of quiet acquiescence. I return purified. In wanton disobedience.
The festival of lights (Diwali)
You go about bursting crackers, heedless of the swirling smoke you laugh at what you cannot dispel oh once, won’t you look? …into the longing eyes of the homeless child who stares at that whirling disc of light, his clothes are torn, his fingers worn from the bricks he carried high on his head…
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.
Sustenance
I close my eyes feel the soft sigh the creak of a chair as you sit at my bedside laying silent vigil upon the long dark night. Morning comes eyes half open I watch you slip away into the day taking with you the demons of my night The light is yours, the dark…
Home
I return often to the home of my childhood to stare at the bars that once unshackled our souls.
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…
ipsita banerjee 