Baccara

BaccaraThose who noticed, saw her beautiful hands
fingers long and supple
As brush, waiting for paints
Most didn’t see beyond eyes
cloud of messy hair
or misty coy glasses

Loneliness will become your problem, girl
said her mirror every day and
the fluffy rag doll-
that grew up with her;
she would look at it, tug it
but not play anymore

She drowned herself in music, adrift
never hum or tap her feet
to beats of her favourite songs,
No one could ever know she was singing inside
whenever she let out a silly blush,
They read shyness

No one heard her raise voice, let alone speak
Yet she SCREAMED
Deep within the chastity of agony,
deflowered at an age before boys
could bring her roses

Loneliness is the least of my problems‘,
she said to the mirror and the doll
every day,
before donning her mask –
Yet very few
Would see through through her semblance…


  • Joining Dversepoets Poetics after a long time where KB has us create persona. Join us to read some wonderful poetry.
  • Black Baccara is a wonderful and highly fragrant rose, chosen for its unique colour.
  • Illustration by Partha Mukherjee.

Tricks that fail

A fine chocolate cake awaits
With magic candles,
Those will lit themselves
Even if you blow them out,
Tiny hands, claps – with
A silvery tiara and waving of a wand
I brace the clasps of sorcery
From a young witch

Blessed and proud a father
I pick her wand
When she is asleep
& try to write L O V E in thin air,
As if all the bad blood
From this world,
Will be expunged in a whiff

Even if all my tricks fail
every year, doesn’t mean
I should n’t try.


Join me on my poetics prompt on Dversepoets – look forward to read from beautiful poetry from all of you. Doors open at 3 PM EST.


 

@2am

IMG_20150517_170633I have this quirky cravings
These days
Sometimes sweet,
Sometimes sour –
Even bitter.

Some days are bizzare
You give me a hard time,
To figure out
What the urge
Really is.

However, you seem to have
developed
a liking for
ball games,
Your feet – they’re fast,
round and tiny, and
You have some really
Frickle
Sleeping pattern.

Yet when you take
Those
eensy-weensy walk
Along inner midriff
at 2am, you make me
The mother, I always
Wanted to be.


I have written mostly about my daughter and very little on my wife. This is a piece where I bring them together. Originally asked by Anthony on his poetics earlier this week, but I couldn’t finish in time. Here I am linking this to OLN.
The sketch is done by Reetam Banerjee.

Runic Inscriptions

Alone they are bare, derelict, hollow
Together,
A consummation of your life’s tears.

Words, such magical creatures
When found in an old notebook,
Change course of life.

Tucked them away in the old cupboard
Didn’t you – dad?
Thought that will keep them from the world, but me?

In the attic you left more for me than you think
Or, I’ll ever admit
Yellow, torn pages, genes, poetry.


I am linking this poem to Dversepoets Poetics, on the theme of “evolving as a poet”. When I was a young boy, I discovered poetry written by my father and took to writing. So literally an afternoon when I found his diary while playing attic, changed the course of my life. Hope you like it. Join in to read some wonderful poetry.

Oh! I hope you’ll like the song and see why I added it.


Believe it, or not?


Time has come that I believe I’ll have to align myself to either of the theological polarities – be a believer or an atheist. I was never comfortable with the concept of praying something for myself, be it riches, long life, success or whatsoever earthly measures, setting aside the days of ignorance in school where examinations were considered to be one of  the areas where a bit of uncertainty and divine grace somewhat helped, if not in marks, but in confidence albeit. Setting all that aside, when I admitted my child into hospital today, I didn’t realize whether I should save my strength for prayer or use it up fighting all odds which seem to have playing some undercurrent to my well-being for past couple of weeks (Having to admit my father thrice within a month into a hospital hoping it would be the last time). Should I stop believing? My baby is not even a year – does she have the stamina to bear all this pain? Does she have the faintest idea that there is more to life than playing some mischief and trying to grab things she is told not to? I am the father who is doing to nothing to soothe her pain.

I am keen to keep my faith but I don’t have infinite resource of vital force to push all the darkness away. I don’t have anyone to look up to for help. I have been fighting with all my vigour, by my strength is fading out. I am losing the insight for hope. Our scriptures say strength comes from within, surely it’s not going to last for ever.


Tell a tale

Tell a tale!

It is now lost somewhere, and
I know, it’s not obscure,
Somewhere it can be easily found,
Perhaps in the same neighborhood,
Now grown so indifferent;
Or in a matted dream
From not so distant past
As oblivion; and
I am hopeful,
What was once ours
Can surely be found.

Adolescence was in fact queer,
To me,
And the rest of us,
Facing the unknown,
What we were told,
Were risks;
Stopped to be questioned
By the elders all along;
Yet every moment,
However small
Or insignificant,
Made us feel so special,
Adorned with happiness-
I have never been so much alive!

I had it in me,
All of us had it within,
We could see through the darkness,
And not know what fear is,
Get hurt
Yet never cry;
We could give away
Everything we ever had,
We could set out,
Lost, and
Find our way home,
We could live a different life every day.

Growing up has a story,
That is all about
Being unfathomably candid
For all; and
The innocence,
I think, is never lost
It just gets tarnished with age,
We keep looking for it
Perhaps
Not hard enough.


I am linking this poem to dVerse Poet’s OpenLinkNight~Week42. The poems from the same night can be found here. Enjoy poetry.