Home for the Buried

That place, which I had even called
home at times.
That place where, in the end,
only your absence lingers on
and a strand of your hair on the pillow
carves out tears,
is suddenly full of only memories.

Everything familiar was so rapidly
devoured by the past —
today remains only a ghost of her herself.
Leaving only my stench in her vanishing act.

How I drag my body
from one wall to another,
clumsily colliding with wash-basins and mirrors
in the narrow corridor.
How I make the carcass crawl
in search of candle lights
amidst fluttering pages of poetry
and a rose gone a tad too dry.

How I yearn for a future around the corner.
The corner outside the reaches of memories.
The corner where some unknown witch
has burnt the last figments of you.
The corner that surfaces after burying
the father, the son and the lover
in a single coffin.

How bitter will my laughter be?

How bitter will my laughter be
when I call that corner home?

© 2007 Ritwik Banerjee

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Home for the Buried by
Ritwik Banerjee is licensed under a
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September 5, 2008 at 12:26 pm 11 comments

Still My Paradise

I see some faces floating
in the froth, in the clandestine clots of street-water.
One looks like our prime minister,
another like a boiled egg, or turnip.
The only human features I relate to,
turn out to be you; everything else vegetates.
Even me.

There are layers of melancholy
that protect you from my thirst.
Some of them, like forgotten music,
carry an ambiance unknown, unasked for.
Some are disguised as masochism.
Ill-placed and anachronistic punishments.

It all started when the rains poured down.
The drizzle, the torrent,
the pitter-patter on garden leaves:
they all became a more beautiful music.
And then, suddenly,
the rain-woman of my fairy tales died.
Not in my arms, as I yearned for,
but in her voice that carried a notion of distance.

A distance bordering on the foothills of Himalaya.
A distance conveying states of separation.
States of segregated minds as well.
I appealed with human frailty,
and you, like a fragrance,
dissolved without trace.
I sniffed the cruel undeserved void.
Your voice reeked of violin strains,
beautiful and forlorn in crescendos.
You claimed so boldly all distances
breached by a lack of longing.
They brought with them
the stink of dead sea-fish.
Weighted by scale and priced by requirement,
even though I lay there devoid of my body,
entangled in fishing nets.

My senses I devoted to you,
and hence, in rhythms of urban sensibilities,
they have been rendered vestigial.
Even in your presence, time never resumed.
Even with your return, the rains did not soak me.
Instead, they flattened the horizon
and sunk into the far away sea.
Standing at the shores, I could taste the salt.

In voiceless languages, your rains
still moisten my eyes.
In coffins of embalmed tapestry,
you still smell like my paradise.

© 2007 Ritwik Banerjee

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Still My Paradise by
Ritwik Banerjee is licensed under a
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September 5, 2008 at 11:56 am Leave a comment

Approved

Cold can be a pint of lager.
Cold can be a solid wall of glass.
Cold can be the air-conditioner
aimed at my cubicle from 9 to 5.
But neither your breath or sweat,
nor your exhaustion or stink.
Those are mine by right and by chauvinism.
By my egocentricity, I own their warmth.
My soul and the warmth of that air,
they are doomed to a symbiosis
approved by you.

© 2007 Ritwik Banerjee

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Approved by
Ritwik Banerjee is licensed under a
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September 5, 2008 at 11:21 am 1 comment

The Last Request

Your absence becomes a ghost
and haunts the emptiness of my heart.
Perhaps even my mind, who knows?
You have been granted the power of what I am not.
Whenever I, as I know myself,
cease to be, I manifest your soul.
When my sensibilities follow you
into a highly personal oblivion,
my only request to you,
amidst my weaknesses,
is to grant me the tenderness of your grasp.

© 2007 Ritwik Banerjee

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The Last Request by
Ritwik Banerjee is licensed under a
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September 5, 2008 at 11:10 am 3 comments

Vacillations

You waver and intoxicate with
the excitement and uncertainty of sports.
You even manage to pan like a Mexican wave.
And today, in your efforts of fragrance,
you carry the misery of sudden defeat.
An unforeseen lack of celebration.
Inebriation of the dance of malign feet
and a subsequent pain of abrasion.
When you rub me off yourself,
and leave a skinless body of remnants,
express remorse for the flashgun
so hungry for your innocence.
Innocence or conscience or honesty
or whatever are your supposed virtues.
Pains still have the uniform rhythm
of haggard permanent hues.

© 2007 Ritwik Banerjee

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Vacillations by
Ritwik Banerjee is licensed under a
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September 3, 2008 at 12:31 pm Leave a comment

Events Such As Women

Sacred scattering of vermilion.
An ebb of dark red blood from my liver.
Differences in the same colour
of morning sky before sunrise.

A conch-shell blows.
All around, the commencement
of mornings and marriages.
Sounds of death southward.

Crows and their echo of caws.
Hopeful, a new day breaks.
Absence of mourners
for an abandoned carcass.

Each new morning:
Another segment of anticipation.
A wave of joyous burst
or perhaps unveiled ugliness.

Life, like water, flows into me
and takes my shape.
Events, like women, have
layers and layers of faces.

© 2007 Ritwik Banerjee

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Events Such As Women by
Ritwik Banerjee is licensed under a
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August 19, 2008 at 4:55 am 4 comments

Time In Presence

Did you know you have such command over time
as only Gods may possess?
With acts as simple as existence,
you render her weightless.
In moments that flutter like your eyelids
she indulges in capricious flights,
swinging in the winds of you.
In moments that are expansive like the sky,
or like the clap of thunder,
you hold her hands and wrap her soul
around mine.
In that tender cocoon you rock me,
and I, I sleep like your child.
The eternal and ephemeral happiness
of rain, of the lightning bolt,
of the clouds passing by.

Have you seen the curves on a conch-shell?
Did you, then, press your ear to that line so beautiful
as to resemble your hair meandering down your cheek?
I did.
And I discovered such wonders!
The timelessness of sound that evades space:
Her beauty lies beyond the human confines
of memories and senses.
I discovered unknown dimensions and
multitudes of paths beyond the sunset.
Like all the buds erupting into flowers
beyond my spasmodic glances.
You and her — these pulchritudes lie in permanence.
Permanent like the oceans’ blueness,
or like the azure of skies.
She is eternal.
She swoons bearing the wings of you.
And you, because you were my coveted dream
long before she was even born.

These divinities are your conception.
Flights of time only give you
my shapes of beatitude.

© 2007 Ritwik Banerjee

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Time In Presence by
Ritwik Banerjee is licensed under a
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July 20, 2008 at 4:53 pm 5 comments

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