From many places, speaking truth
and making magic happen. Celebrating language.
Poets' Pages | Title Page | Links
ARUNANSU BANERJEE - Page 2
|Oh! Kolkata!||Carbon dioxide||An old grand Piano|
|A meeting by the river Ganga||Reflections||Death of a Neem tree|
|Yoga by the sea||Haiku||Broken|
|Faith||Blues||Inside a tunnel|
|Keeping them warm||Terrace poem||'It's too cold here'|
Return to Page 1
Oh! Kolkata!You carry my burden of yesteryears.
Dust has thickened along your folds, yet
cracks on a pillar do not bother me.
Gulab jamuns and sandesh
have made me a victim of hyperglycemia.
Still I add spoonfuls of sugar
in my morning tea-cup.
Protests march on your streets, halt
traffic. But you continue sculpting me.
You build my frame, apply fine clay
with care, sun-dry the softness.
A brushstroke opens my eye,
I feel like an eccentric
perched on the top rung of Howrah bridge,
eager to play a card game with you.
Carbon dioxideAs I breathe my poems,
flowers take the place of bullets.
An ancient rain
flirts with their perfume.
third season of a year, adding
some amount of carbon dioxide
in the background.
An old grand PianoThe keys languish in the dark,
a spider spends his day
Frantic whirr of some captive bees
remind the felt hammers
of faded tunes.
Sunbeams bleeding through skylight
hunt for melodies
within a dust of silence.
ZubeidaMehndi adorned her slim
fingers; chosen gems decked
her ivory charms.
She was a rose
in her bridal shawl
Lips were parted
in expectancy, downcast
The needlework entices
her even now. She traces out
an artwork of henna.
Locks have grayed
within folds of time. She trails
The aftermathI observed a minute's silence
under a banyan tree. Mourned
an early death of rains.
Puddles evaporated young.
Fire-bellied toads stopped their yodels.
Tadpoles kept on hunting.
Swarms of arthropods examined
the hungry relics. Scorched blades
narrated countless episodes.
I couldn't tread more softly.
HandicappedA pair of crutches lay on the pavement.
Amidst a crowd, crumpled vehicles,
mutilated remains, security people,
flashbulbs and smoke, Ramu searched
for his white tennis ball.
His temples throbbed with the hoot
of an ambulance, in a stagnant smell
of charred flesh -someone pushed him away.
One pigeon perched itself
upon the idle crutches,
tweaked at a smallish globe,
messy with streaks of deep red.
It rolled for a distance, and stopped.
CologneCluster of roses on my windowsill,
draped with morning.
Murky sky, a curtain of downpour
adds to their sweet languor.
Caressing a canvas
brushes speak softly.
Little ones sleep unperturbed;
velvety lips curved in bliss.
Dreamy odor paints with
OnceOne lazy afternoon
my door creaked
with a subtle melody.
We leaped over
the corral fence of minutes,
mimicked feathery touches
on a harmonium.
strummed the green
we robbed sunshine together.
A tapestrySome repeated words
DO, DON'T, FOLLOW
got entwined in my scruples.
Alphabets go jogging
over the belt of a treadmill,
churn out a needlecraft
of YESTERDAY and TOMORROW
"Ouch!" - I've caught a pebble in my shoe!
My poems lay scattered
in a crowd of MEs and YOUs.
A meeting by the river GangaHeavy clouds made
the twilight dimmer.
They were huddled under an umbrella.
His spectacles were blurred.
Yet he could watch her eyes.
left on the banks, appeared morbid.
She carefully took out a card from her bag
and said, "You must come."
All he managed to read
was the word "Wedding"
engraved in gold.
They sat silent like rusty railings.
Country boats dangled in front.
The downpour kept forming
transient polka dots on the water.
ReflectionsI feel a noose around my neck;
a sleepy residing under the gallows all day.
I get tired of watching
your rebuking eyes, your nose
hidden in a handkerchief
sniffing an obnoxious Me.
I slit my wrist every minute;
pierce a hypodermic syringe into
I would have dived from my balcony,
but for my agoraphobia.
I hurl a paperweight at you
only to find
Death of a Neem treeA twig detained one purple kite.
Winds could only widen the stab.
A baul passed by, strumming an ektara.
His orotund tones reverberated,
"O Lord, set the birds free!"
An irate tempest fetched sundown.
Flashes traveled along
veins of firmament.
Morning opened its eyes
on a half burnt trunk, split in two.
A village kid scurried over the fields
holding the kite behind him.
Yoga by the seaI inhale an early morning breeze
on soft sand
With closed eyes
I picture a candle flame
swaying to the chorus of waves
Waters cool my feet
I exhale used up years
HaikuCotton clouds crawl
leaves shrug off sunshine
BrokenI pore over
torn pieces of arguments
shards of a mirror
ants feed on
FaithThe rose is still alive
with lesions of stem canker.
Held by a frail neck, her prayers survive.
Faith is her anchor.
She meditates to revive
a lost perfume. The rose is still alive
with lesions of stem canker.
my feet cool off
muddy waters here
murky sky above.
Inside a tunnelI'm running
as if I am lost.
I may have
maybe not. I carry on
hoping the end nears.
VestigesMy eyes burn
dew sparkles on grass tips
green turns golden-brown
thoughts become older.
InquiryHis stiffened body
beside railway tracks
the search on
for the suicide note
in a nearby pond.
PollinationA bumble bee
on a whirlwind tour
kisses my fingers
pollen grains cover
one paper clip holder.
jasmine buds in sultry noon
air smells of wet earth
Thomas Alva Edison.
an empty bird cage,
a December breeze -
I prepare greeting cards
of a street mongrel,
on my verandah,
NumbnessThrough the window, I watch
a variety of words and phrases
standing in a queue, outside my door.
The telephone rings ... I listen
to your unreasonable silence.
Keeping them warmAn old-time air
stuffed in a mahogany cupboard
brought the odour
of a chestnut-colored coat,
a bundle of ties
and a neat stack of cotton shirts.
A cricket started chirping somewhere.
I breathed deep, my fingers fondled
one wind-up watch, one rusty fountain pen,
long-lived greeting cards, bills
and a half-torn diary of 1972.
I tied them all together,
then baked the mixture …
the way I prepare a hot milk cake.
Terrace poemI stare blankly at nearby buildings,
try to scrutinize their architecture.
The palpable excitement of a city
echoes through the mist.
I’m like the trunk of an old chestnut tree.
Branches rising from my head
search for free oxygen. One woodpecker
maintains its daily schedule.
‘It’s too cold here'Each day
to let the sunlight in.
she smiles at me,
my paralyzed feet.