Singleton

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.

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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.

Adieu . . . .

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 . . . . . . .

Perhaps Even Greed

I wrote this poem last night in Bengali, and then I translated it in order to put it up here. I am not satisfied with the translation, so it might (and should) change sometime in the future!

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Desire. Perhaps even greed . . . .

to sink in the floating whiteness of cotton-like clouds
and cross the limitless azure sky,
to hold in my bare palms the moon-white pearls
from the depths of fathomless oceans,
to break the dark dreams of sleepless nights
with the warm hope of eastern horizons,
I have
a desire, and perhaps even greed.

The deep foundations of weakness’ broken refuge
are nailed to the corners of numb souls.
To snap the senile strings of senseless love
and walk naked on frozen soils,
to dance to the rhythm of the hermit’s cymbals
in the ephemeral dawns on eternal earth,
I have
a desire, and perhaps even greed.

Why that sadness, those morose eyes, and the splayed ends
of some ancient threads in your wrinkled hands?
Why do the broken walls burn in the bitterness
of your torn thoughts’ broken convulsions?
For what, on the moss-covered slippery dank floor,
do your tears give birth to suicidal wrath?

For what mute, invisible reasons do
you have
a lust, and a stagnating need?

an inert desire, or perhaps even greed?

© 2007 Ritwik Banerjee

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

An overview of Baroque art

In spite of its primarily Catholic impetus, not all Baroque art is religious. Delving on a few pre-baroque and baroque paintings, we will expound the intricacies of this genre of European art …..

A Prayer Sans Sense

Do not venture beyond my thirsty sight.
I feel lost in me.
I cry out like that tired traveller of a moonlit desert
on whose dry tongue is written the jibes of a mirage.
Now that you have come next to my dusty path,
don’t leave.

I need water!

Flotsam

or “Sailor”

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In the joy of dilated pupils I see
my loneliness’ reflection.
With old rotting memories
I tie fragmented smiles,
and build my tired raft.
And I float among oceans.
There are sometimes small islands. Shelters.
Perhaps they are flotsam too.

Paradise Lost

A young woman, divine
in her glory that chimes in my mind,
standing naked,
as her world betrays her modest expectations,
mocking her gullible probity,
hurling lewd jibes at her beauteous breasts
it drank its first milk from.