Bread Poetry

Once the wavy, golden crops
and now the suave flour,
Into malleable dough
By lukewarm water

with yeast,
In the fervour of oven,
I rise,
To redemption

Call it
Gluttony, appetite or famine
If you may

I consummate you
All the same.

Grace has us write bread poetry before winter – on Dversepoets. Please join us to read some wonderful poetry. Doors open at 3 PM Est.

The straight line

I wanted to draw a curve, lush
that could shape up
and ended up in a skew
almost scathing
Nowhere luscious

you can call that a failure
0r success,
How pointy objects
A few sharpies
and half baked thouhts
On my sketchbook

The longest love letter
I wrote
Was almost as pristine
as the white paper
I couldn’t cover up
in gibberish
You can call me a failure,
I guess

I wrote love, on her forearm
and been doing so
ever after.

I stammered, legs trembled
When I stood up
To speak
Almost blinded by spotlight
A stigma
But I had a winning cocoon,
They heard what I said
Not who

My child, when you grow up
you will see
both sides
of the coin are
Equally immodest
you, my dear, then have to curve your own straight line

Joining Mary’s prompt on Dversepoets poetics. Come, read some wonderful poetry with us.

Memoirs of smell

891963_459999690743801_1285426968_oClose your eyes, extend arms –
Take a deep breath,
What is it that you feel
Is missing?

Memoirs – smell
Curling up through dense
winter fog; freshness
from kitchen garden
Flavour oozing out
of kitchen window –
warmly baked
rice powder cakes,

Savor it, sink into it
Succumb to the sin,
Feed your cravings with
Layers of rice flour wraps
and sweetened coconut,
Ah! those layers~
Tongue melting

Don’t cloy,
The diet chart you live on,
May not approve; but
Traces of those genes
Live in you,
Indulge that sweet tooth
you were born with

Open your eyes, slowly; a tidbit
Is right there on your tongue,
Can you not feel it?

Okay, you can call me a hedonist now……
I go by many names~

Join me on my on Poetics prompt – we are talking about foods that defines. Here I write about the famous Bengali homemade sweet dishes…luckily I found the right dish I wrote about from a friend’s photo album.

Photography: Suman Malaker



There was a window, only one
Albeit it
stormed in the thunder,
Heat waves
Or carried wintry frosts;
It was still the only one-

Like the room, lived by no woman,
Unlikely would ever be;
So unscathed of dainty lace
Was he himself, and
Uncouth, that
Blatantly he’d bare himself
To the
Meanness and malice,
jobbery, despotism, rape
You name it-

Blemish on his immaculate soul
Those ink-drop rains,
Yet he never contorted
His face.

A truce in the battle of good and evil
Was his window, and
He wasn’t the only one
Who kept it open.

Mary has us write news poetry on Poetics – and here is my piece, somewhat dark and metaphorical, but couldn’t help it coming. Join us at 3 PM EST to read some wonderful poetry.

All that drunkenness

Captive, of the zebra paint –
black and white
lies of life

Rattling of the chain
smells freedom,
Door opens on the inside

Leeway to greater us,
Bereft of vanity,
heartstrings harp

That drunkenness-
Harmony we write
and swoop again

We’re chained to the gang of rhythm
The song is never done.

On Dversepoets, Anthony has us write spirit of music. Join us and read some wonderful poetry. I am sharing the song that inspired me to write this one.


Goddess in preparation - Kumortuli

A rattan frame – those my bones, and mud
That’s my flesh
Clayey, fresh river soil
Not the grainy, sandy type
That doesn’t cling to a form,
The lustre – that’s sandpaper and varnish
All those paints – my apparel
Voluptuous – that’s a woman
In the eyes of a male sculptor,
But, who has ten hands?

Okay, I am a woman brought to life
The daughter, of the great mountain
Mother of four
Super children,
A compulsive husband
You give me a family
One can only imagine,
Four days of grandeur – short lived, but
Who doesn’t like a new life and home?

Then, the strangest thing happens
You kneel,
Pray for beauty, victory and glory
Wait, as if
My silence
Would grant you all; I am
A clay idol, a symbol, at best
But a deity,
One who rides a lion?

Every year, we spend
An awful lot of time
Trying to speak to one another
In a language,
That none comprehends-
Answers, if that’s what you seek
Lie within you, not me-

The fun, frolic, homecoming
And this grand reception?
– Amen to that.

Tonight – I am going to host Poetics on Dversepoets pub – join me to write your rewrite mythology in modern day context. I set the background on Durgapuja. The clay idol of ‘Durga’, the Goddess, is created, worshipped for four days and then immersed in the river. In many occasion the remnants of the idol is pulled out of river to be used next year and that has been the inspiration of this poem.