Volume 4 Issue 2, June 2020
Special Issue for Indian Poetry
A mass of moth eaten cloud
threadbare and carefully spun
around a red bullish moon.
in the end, the cold cave weaver piece together
the night in parts:
the map is lost in the missing eye.
I've come home- the way back
longer and unsure, long as a life
wrapped against a battering wind
in long black lines
head held back
throat thrust; trapped
in static cruciform.
(washed out) ahead of shadows
I have scavenged
the tide, (leaving in
if my feet still have the right to head back-
Home coming to the unearthly sky
to the shake of tangerines in the autumn wind
to the sun inlaid with pearls
to the streets spacious with laughter and joy
to the dispersed pigeons on a copper cable wire
to the cries and blood shot eyes -
I have come back to you,
as dark as to its transparency
the gang of ugly rag dolls
to the cries of bullet shots
inched in the sky;
thick through chest
a missed target and it pierced the dreamy osmanthus tree, an adamant leaf battles it's stay, stays in parts swirling in fragments.
Let me hold you, my home
in my tin box until the small window
O my feet take to a storm
To Let In
She cuts the blood red rose
of its stem and peels off each thorn
carefully pinching through their rustic coarseness, beauty engulfed between her fingers, she carries it off in a direction of the storm clouds that only moved but never spilled.
After few hours, the clouds rumbled away to the farther south and the flower, the blood red rose drooped down between her fingers.
She squashed the colour darker between her palms and at last bled the blood of mortal self
Razor sharpen the cut and the thick blood pasted on her skin seeking cure -
Cure is never a medicine
and thus every day she bleeds
Pins, broken glass, blades, tooth combs
Anything that bleeds her through
Each cut lets some light in to her cuts, her scars and all that she held between her offended thighs!
She cuts so that she heals
Her last rite before she leaves
And the first cut was never known
for she never bled to know how much deeper is deep
still they say," The first cut is the deepest."
Where Our Breathing Takes…
I wonder where do so many birds fly to
Sometimes I love to count and at times counting gives away to its own countless count.
My fingers giving away to the task, hold each other tight and my body becomes a pair of eyes
It is the month of April and May lurks in misty rain, they had read the weather so.
The barks of the casuarina trees walk with us
sometimes inversely with roots touching the sky
Weightless, brave, the images are strangers waving across the field, with/without a flag
An ominous monsoon approaches in May
Birds in air that was beyond counting in fingers clash against each other
War of winds intersect and feathers stop their way, in midair suspended
they form a specimen, a constellation
a calm alliance to where we once belonged
a word or a turn of phrase...Places to where our breathing takes.
In Another Life
I went out
for the stars to look at me
wish they had eyes!
Don't they have a pair or another
to give it to the gagged sky
Yesterday the sky was shot dead
and with it a pair of herons who were not alarmed until it is 3a.m.now.
Wings pinned together in depth of winter neon
they are tossing down
Backwards the regret of the washed out past
Softly they lock themselves with a pinch of ice
Another bad dream, they say, and toss about
Silence is like a rally of gunshots
I searched the sky again and again
Later the eastern side was a sunrise
and at the other end the herons and me in another life
caught in mid-frame racing stones
two at a time.
If I had to write on darkness
The crow would be my witness
Pondering over the spent day
The sun stoops to see its own face
Repeated many a times on the border of the salty water.
A crow's feather falls heavy
shuns light and transparency.
A raggedy cloud traps the hapless star light
Darkness seems so spacious without any light to fill in
My witness pressed against darkness at opposite end
Blinded by each other’s mortified bleakness
Time stops for some seconds
Deep down into the unfathomable depth of the ocean
Light that was once filtered
Is now spun as an opaque stone
settled as a day dead
In the bird's soul.
About the poet
Ritamvara Bhattacharya writes from a darling’s heart, Darjeeling. She believes in what Sylvia Plath said, “And by the way, everything in life is writable about if you have the outgoing guts to do it, and the imagination to improvise. The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt.” She writes for the pleasure of it. She writes for the ‘I am’ in her heart, a voice that creates ripples and sensation.