A Poet's Confession

How do I tell you how I write?

I sit down and scribble on

As long as the words come on their own

And the thoughts don’t take their heavenly flight.

As long as I can harness them

And as long as they have sympathy for me-

‘Coz without their aid

My pen is truly lame.

This time the thoughts are just flying around.

And thus, although thousands of words in my mind abound,

I am failing to create the proper sound.

That’s why I say that I really don’t write

And it’s the words that sometimes choose to be right.

To follow this, please consider this forcefully yoked piece.

Comments

WHICH WAY OUT?

Here I see a sinking ship. Only me in it… Slowly the water Reaches my feet… I can’t swim. I can’t think. The brain is numb, The feet are frozen. The hands don’t move, The tongue is parched. What’s the point? Why even try? Let’s sit here. Let’s go down… The eyes soak in The lovely blue Of the sky and the sea- A blue that seems so new. What’s there in life? Never saw this blue When I lived… Did I live? Did I love? Was I loved? Who will cry? And for how long? Doesn’t matter now… I don’t care… Let’s wait and watch… Let’s be one with the blue… Here I sink… Or do I rise? I embrace the blue. But I don’t feel wet anymore. Sea or sky? Where am I? Am I free? “Never” cried a voice. And I touched the old soil Of love, hatred and recoil… Even death played a trick I feel so sick… A betrayed little dog Back on earth to slog…

THE FIRE-FLY

So late into the night, A pale yellow light, The room is all so gloomy. The sorry wreck of myself Perched on the chair, Hitting some notes On the faithful old guitar. The fingers find their way To the chords that may Drive in some fun. But the melancholy minors Are always there to stay. Oh! A fire-fly! What a delight! Full of it’s happy light… Near the corner of the room It sits down to rest, Spreading its light all along. I partake of the happiness And the guitar responds With such vigour and joy That the gloom of the room Seems like misty history. The fire-fly starts feeling restless. So much of joy… So hard to contain… Its job is done. It has made me feel so good. Now it can leave And spread the mood around. It takes off, hovers in the air, Goes higher, takes a swing… And oh!!The cruel blade- The return-gift from humanity… It drops down on the table, Its light slowly fading out… I keep ...

OVERLOADED OVERHEAD

An ethereal corporeal footstep Added to the multitude of thumps A monumental mechanical drift Diffused through a temperate corporate pump. Oft in a room full of caffinated keyboards Tapped with the same resonant feel One of the normalised overheads Fails to respond to the drill. As the glass lets in the sunshine It does well to keep out the rain But what would the good glass keep out If the room becomes a marshy terrain? Yet after a moment of murky silence The nervous fingers get back to tapping again. Aritra Chakrabarti, 8.45AM, 15 th July, 2017.

Aritra Chakrabarti

Search This Blog