Evergreen Leaves ….

Once again, a translation from my nameless Bengali original. As Puchkilla says so often, “reading a translation is like eating chewed food!” And I feel it now with this translation more than ever before. But I present this example of ineptitude anyway, under the guise of my urban wilderness:

Like the sweet wind carrying the
hints of Tamarisk love,
the unvaried wearisome stream of a million lives
keeps on floating and floating by,
but without the moisture, dry.

Like the allure of some distant memory
the din of rolling waves
of hundreds of unknown sounds, dreamily supernatant,
reach my ears.
Like the faint silhouette of a distant misty village,
it provides the glimpse of a fascinating hope,
but without the respite of a cry.

A mere stretch of arms, and in my palms
I hold the fretful clinker drone.
Like the foam of a well-known ocean.
As underneath two empty brackish hands
endless roars keep falling in unceasing thrashes,
at moment’s closing, they dissolve amongst
the scentless sky.

I sit on shore sands, solitary.
Colours of life fill my eyes.
I fill my heart with the inheritance
of all I have seen and all I have not
and all my silent sighs.

Has always been inept, the heart,
and steadily has moved apart.
Echoes of the roar stop, the din grows faint,
as if I comprehend the transience of foam
and all sound’s futile effort.

Wild, fathomless, unaccepting blue
at the hearts of the two people resides.
Spasms inflate the colours of forlorn.
One is a rainbow forgetfully hiding a love in its music.
The other, a dark black unmoving stone.

Like twigs floating by in a wearied stream,
with infinite gestures of a choiceless love
for an instant they lift their eyes to see
the absurdity of a poem
at moment’s closing in blissful Lethe
within the clinkers of foam.

© 2007 Ritwik Banerjee

Urban Wilderness by
Ritwik Banerjee is licensed under a
Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 License.

For the uninitiated, I provide a link to the concept behind Gogol: The Floating Mobile.

Knowing Gogol as briefly as I did, my surprise rose to newer hitherto unknown levels bordering on shock when I discovered that his tryst with cellular phones did not end with an instrument floating down the sparkling tropical waters.

On his return from that memorable outing, Gogol solemnly promised to his near and dear ones, as well the witnesses of the tragic demise of his first cellular phone, that he shall be buying an inexpensive instrument as a penance to his irredeemable irresponsibility. I think I just used unrealistically harsh words to describe his solemnity. The witnesses tell me that he certainly did not utter ‘irresponsibility’! But, whatever the exact nature of this promise was, he did manage to keep it for a week by not buying any phone whatsoever.

But then, disaster struck in the form of the arrival of his credit card.

(more…)

Like almost every other night, I lie awake
in my slumber. My senses lusting for you.
With wizened eyes I wish to see
your slender fingers, in cruel forgetfulness,
twisting me over.
Split open all the chambers and
spit, derisive; pull it apart for all to see.
Pull it apart as you daintily walk
with piercing, sharp, and nimble feet
on my softest fleshes.

Taunting my frightened face with the joy
of your command. Smelling my being,
my being the doll to be ripped apart
for a moment of perfervid ardor.
Unstitched, cotton heart fleeting in your dream
I dissipate, torn arms lying under your
party shoes; soaking discomfort, pain drafting
my martyrology within you.

Pick up the limbs, please, from under the overture
in convulsions of denial, frenzy, close to your
heart of hearts — hold them.
Heavy with your tears, stuff me back
to back myself I sew my self
until, in your careless laughter,
you render me fleeting cotton again

and again.

© 2007 Ritwik Banerjee

Render Me by
Ritwik Banerjee is licensed under a
Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 License.

This is the story of one Gogol who I met briefly during my internship at GA. When I joined as an employee, he had already left. The character has nothing in common with the person in The Namesake (film or book). For reasons unknown to me back during the internship months, Gogol was popular beyond logical limits within the confines of several hearts. One evening, my flatmate S*!#@ introduced me to the Gogol. Not the man, but the concept that was Gogol.

(more…)

I feel a pain, as tenderness touches me
like morning mist caressing the grass
on a faded village road in childhood,
like the soft drops of silent dew
on brown leaves soft beneath
my yearning feet.

Ears shall confound as they hear me.
Hear my voice echoing in the profundity
of repeating, convoluting confusions.
Clotted blood on my eternal scars.
Clotted on my eternal in
my burning thoughts.

I shall feel the clasps of unknown hands
on the silent silent gasps in my language,
on slender necks, on silent mouths
that have only ever tried to wail
piercing the cloudy whiff of
my solitude.

© 2007 Ritwik Banerjee

Solitude by
Ritwik Banerjee is licensed under a
Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 License.

Well, my friends, here I am. Back with a rather short poem. I also put up a page called I Am Always Write where I talk about a few little things that offer no significant consequences to anything except for my writings.

Smell the sun that wipes away tired sweat
from the circling seagulls’ pearl white wings.
The careening dust as the cattle returns home.
While the orange crown sets on your exposed laughter,
revel in your throne.

Taste the divine dance of a full moon night
on the beautiful blackness of the ocean’s mouth.
In the beyonds of unconfined darkness’ call
lies elephant cries from the deepest mists.
They are your own.

© 2007 Ritwik Banerjee

Singleton by
Ritwik Banerjee is licensed under a
Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 License.

Just a last post on this blog to tell my wonderful friends in the blogosphere that for the time being, this is it. I will take a break to improve upon my poetry. It could take months, or years — but I do promise to share my poems with you again, once I think they are good enough to share.

So long . . . . . . .