Volume 4 Issue 2, June 2020
Special Issue for Indian Poetry
Dedicated to Pierre Rosanvalon
(Future of Health & democracy)
Summer morning is blissfully dull
Can't see a fisherman near my nearest pond
I feel slower than the dead man's skull
Kundera's laughing what about Ruskin Bond?
Some windows are widely open
A few half closed, enters suspicious air
Some mysteries remain unsolved, few myths are broken
In the time of Fear nothing is fair.
Last night you were in bed with Pierre Rosanvalon
And had taken off your nightie to say: I'm over the moon
While a Dr X has found a hint of hope in bone marrow
I'm not sure the cure will come too soon.
I am neither a bipolar nor swallowed the leaves of grass
But God's grandfather is watching us..
The Art of Forgetting or Writing a Poem
Forgetting is an art
I haven't mastered the art very well
I hate remembering...
Still the sound of silence haunt me time and again
The memories return.
Sometimes memories bring out strange metaphors from the word station
They arrange themselves in an order that sounds like a song
Or looks like a cobweb of a hunting spider
Looking for its kill..
Some may call it a bout of insanity
A few an ultimate poem
Poetry is a great leveller
It takes a lot and gives back a few
But the unforgettable intensity of desire
And the lightness of letting it go
Remain embedded in subcortex as a nebulous haze..
The embryo of a poem
Or your catastrophic existence
A Stranger at Your Door
She was neither too long
Nor too short
Nothing short of extraordinary
Yet a sudden spurt of bleeding nose brought
her to my room.
A minor scratch at the little's area of right nose...
I mopped up the wound with cotton and ice till her eyes blinked with admiration...
It's fine now, I told her.
Only then I recognised the redness of her cheeks, the purting of lips, the moisture of her tongue...
Thank you, she said.
My pleasure, I murmured softly into her ear.
She put her ivory white index finger on her pout with a silent gesture: please stop!
I had started to smile,
then laugh, and finally laughed out loud at her gesture breaking the silence of the moon and the lockdown
Before she had left I was amazed and equally amused to see her pair of shoes
A full grown body with such a tiny pair of footwear!
She stood like a virgin in front of an erect tomb.
She is Cinderella needing a nose job in the time of lockdown...
My God is Back
His God died young
My God is back with a bang
Gracious in defeat, humble in moments of joy
And solves the universal puzzle of arithmetic: the future of infinity
She created the anatomy of body with 3 errors
The errors are vital for existence
God knows this & didn't correct any
When vision comes from within I understand
What eyes cannot see
When a voice comes from without I feel
my book of knowledge needs an add-up
Mind is an abstract teacher who left her glasses in the museum of skull
My book; God is back
is ready for sale
But the pages are empty
But don't blame it on me
He is back, He will write His story for you
We never had an affair in winter or full moon
Good friends, we would share some strange thoughts at someone's place
Or talk crazy over phone
But one day it was ruined at nobody's fault
To end the journey that was never on.
I like some Spanish music & so did You
You like some Greek poems & so did I
We both like Irish coffee, the price you've always paid
We both disliked Queen's gamble
but never said.
We have stopped seeing each other
before the last squirrel stopped dancing at your nearest park
All good things come at a price and an expiry date
We never had an affair in the dark
Nature's blessings are seldom late.
I stop writing and start walking down the lone street
You stop walking & start writing poems again
Careful, our paths should never meet
A lover's grief is a loser's gain...
I sip a cup of caffe americana at Barista, alone
You gulp down a cup of green tea without lemon, at your home
Life's too short, Garcia's parrot says
Like civilised adults we've parted ways
Withered leaves still fall in abandon in a cool summer
It's never easy to unforget the landscape where I am no more a stranger
It's not Plato's password or Leone's lust
It's not you but the browser, the semicircular motion that's blowing up things in the dust.
About the poet
Dr Biswajit Chattopadhyay is a cardiac physician based at Kolkata. He is a clinical & preventive Cardiologist attached with reputed Hospitals & clinics in and around Kolkata. Besides his profession he is a bilingual poet & translator and has 16 publications till date. He also writes short stories & non-fictional prose in various journals from India and abroad. He edited a couple of Bengali & English magazines of repute and was the recipient of first Bangla Kobita Academy Award & the prestigious Utpal Kumar Basu Smriti Puroskar.