Our Home's Roof: A Rondel
Fair Luna, paintress of the night,
Employs her brush with polished skill
Upon our quadrate roof to fill
It with the colours cream and white.
Men viewing from skyscrapers might
Deem it a pink sheet—such a thrill!
Fair Luna, paintress of the night,
Employs her brush with polished skill.
This roof looks pocked to naked sight;
Therefore, it takes the shielding spill
Of moon-made hues (like man's strong will
to paint his griefs with laughter bright).
Fair Luna, paintress of the night,
Employs her brush with polished skill.
The Pebble's Testimony
My home and haunt are on this road,
Beneath the smoky clouds;
Each day, I meet the pleading feet
Of berserk, breakneck crowds.
Some loader put me in his van,
Left here amid the flanks
Devoid of scenes—the rural greens,
The rills, and riverbanks.
At day, this road becomes a place
Of gruff, harrassing blaring
With none to sing a hymn and bring
Relief from my despairing;
Although the public treads on here,
It's filled with lonliness—
A shrub and oak, my only folk,
Bring ease and merriness;
I chat with them throughout the day
About a balmy breeze;
Oh! how we long to be among
Wide orchards full of trees.
The surly cars run over me,
Displace me from the spot
(Far from my mates) to grits and slates
And there I lie distraught
Until midday when schoolboys come,
Make me their ball, kick! pace!
Then as they prance, I get the chance
To reach my former place.
When twilight's mantle slowly drops
And skies are turning brown,
That time, we three, relaxingly,
Behold this dimming town.
The early hours of the eve
We calmly spend at last,
But late at night there is a fright
When lorries trundle fast,
For once a reckless driver had
Collided with a whelp,
But did not care to aid it there
Or stop to call for help—
Poor soul, who tried to cross the road,
Was soon deprived of breath,
Remorseless, he set out to flee
And left it to its death.
Unwillingly, I had to watch
Its red, convulsive self;
I saw its strife to gain back life
But could not move myself:
Thenceforth, I've praised the sunlight more,
Begged it for longer days
For then at least, a helpless beast
Can ward off such a phase.
The Nocturnal's Sonnet
Lone Glowworm, come! perchance with you and me
Might Somnus will forever be displeased,
Unlike the rest He amplects tenderly;
Come from your withe, we'll have our loneness eased.
Sit on my desk and watch the sophic moon
For years which has been bards' device of love,
Or scintillate your lantern to entune
With sparks sent by your kindred stars above.
With you I learned to not resent the ones
Who draw Sleep's breaths for I can watch the Dawn
Break from the clouds, and think: when closed has Sun's
Work and all from their duties have withdrawn,
Then you, the stars and moon illume the sky,
So, who will write Night's beauty if not I?
A Dispute
My noontime nap got wasted by the noise
From my old neighbour's room. Something had stirred
A clash between two men. One's grating voice
Was spewing spite. From what I overheard,
(Placing my ear upon the plaster's dent)
Their barney was about the housing rent.
Man 1:
It cannot be 8000, twat! Rethink
and calculate again. Do not miscount!
I've loaned you many times for tharradrink
and Bhang. Have you forgotten now? Discount
their prices right away from my account!
Man 2:
I am beholden to you and I swear
I'll liquidate the arrears. But, you see,
being a concierge, my only care
is to obey the landlord's orders. He
will listen to your grievances. Not me!
Man 1:
We both know he's a scrooge who'll not reduce
a dime. Why don't you talk to him instead?
You've been his true-blue chap for years. So use
this boon to speak for me! But, oh! you're fed
with fattening hauteur! Isn't that, bighead?
Man 2:
I might as well be brusque and rough like you,
But there's no gain in wrangling with a prole
Who's loutish and ill-bred. It's better to
Pass over such a sleaze than have my soul
Turn pungent from his plaguy folderol.
Man 1:
Keep spatting on. It's finks like you who turn
Their backs on pals. It's numbskulls like you whose
Contentions are feckless. Wish I could spurn
Your pleas for cash from me, or at least choose
To demean you those nights you'd come for booze.
Man 2:
My mother says, "In monetary matters,
Even your very kin and chums will show
Their true colours—won't mind if you're in tatters."
And you are just a renter here, so
I won't be startled if you turn my foe.
A pin-drop silence filled the air. I thought:
Years of friendship were wrecked for currency.
While readying for bedtime, my ears caught
Songs from his room......a shindig probably?
Curious, I peeked through his doorjamb's chinks:
A moment's feud was sorted over drinks.
Word Meanings:
Tharra Drink: an Indian alcoholic drink
Bhang: Cannabis
Thoughts on Marriage
I've heard all say, 'Troth one whose beauty's mild-
The sweeter flowers are bethronged by bees,
O'er joy and rapture one who worthens peace
And assays not to have just jewels piled.
I'll look for one who perks up like a child
'Pon sighting Robins nesting on the trees,
Whose verve for beinghood does more increase
To have a line or two of verse compiled,
Who knows the trueness of tranquility
Does fruiten best when dwelled a simpler life,
That God alone and for His will should be
The cause and goal of every human strife,
That flesh is false and soul's the verity,
I'll lay 'fore her the ask to be my wife.
What Role Should We Assign to Mithoo?
One moment here, one moment there,
How fleetly you glide through the air!
Bird, tell me, what amuses you:
My home's decor, the outer view,
Or flower boxes everywhere;
My sweet Mithoo! My sweet Mithoo!
Sometimes upon my shoulder, or
Beside the frontyard's boulder, or
Atop the davenport, you stay
To entertain throughout the day
My little family of four.
O' Popinjay! O' Popinjay!
Should we build you a citadel?
A tiny, cozy, straw-made cell?
Or, crown you as our mighty tsar
And set your kingdom on the spar
Where you will always gladly dwell?
O' great sardar! O' great sardar!
Or, would you like to be the one
Who'd greet the first rays of the sun,
Flit through my bedroom every dawn
To cry out, "Wake up!" on and on?
Should this be finalized and done?
O' windborne fawn! O' windborne fawn!
But I think you should be a nice
Caroler who could fill our eyes
With joy and tears each day and night
By warbling notes both strong and light
Of love and loss and sad goodbyes.
Bird of Delight! Bird of Delight!
Compose! Compose that sweet refrain
Once vocalized by dear Lorraine;
When I'm in sorrow, sing to me
Her sweet hypnotic melody;
Although in vain, although in vain,
For now it will make sadness flee.
Bio: Shamik Banerjee is a young poet from India. When he is not writing, he can be found strolling the hills surrounding his homestead. Some of his poems are forthcoming in The Hoogly Review, The Metaphysical Review and Dreich, to name a few.
