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Sunday, November 12, 2023

Shamik Banerjee: Six New Formalist Poems



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.


Tuesday, November 7, 2023

George Anderson: Grey-Headed Flying Foxes



Grey-Headed Flying Foxes

 

It should have been a portend, of sorts-

when the bats first congregated

in their tens of thousands over the Northern Illawarra 

 

in a prelude to the massive bushfires

along the east coast on New Year’s Eve.

 

Every evening about 7

they arrive like messengers of doom

 

circling the skies and nesting in the tall Blackbutt gums 

and Turpentine trees above our homes.




The poem was first published in Linked Verse 001 by Laughing Ronin Press (August 2023).



Buy the book here: www.laughingroninprss.com


photo: George Anderson (click to enlarge)

New Poems: Sushant Thapa



Worn-out Blues 

 

My faded blue color headphone, 

A tribute to musical spring. 

 

The whiteness of a tooth fairy

That my niece welcomes 

After she pulls her weak tooth. 

 

The faded color of my home, 

My drawings left un-kissed by the sun. 

 

I see the wine glass, 

Empty beside your absence

My heart breaks 

Like a glass barrel of wine. 

 

I chant evening prayers 

To sail the forgotten empire 

And make it land on holy grounds 

Of essence. 

 

My worn-out blues 

Makes me an outlaw

Living in pocketed dreams. 

 

I walk on the street 

Reading headlines 

From bookstores' Newspaper 

 

Worn-out is the news of life 

With no smiling jazz for 

People to amuse themselves.

 

 


Hopeful in Death 

 

When the time

Sings its last melody 

Let me not be grounded. 

 

My grave will play 

The music of departure 

In hope and it will 

Flower a dandelion. 

 

I will touch the sky 

When my heart will sprout 

And flower like a 

Cotton cloud. 

 

My maple leaves 

Will decorate your lawn

And sway not in shyness. 

 

I am hopeful of death, 

When I cease, 

These things will remind 

You of my life, 

 

Like my poems 

That has sailed my life 

In a boat of hope. 

 

I searched for hope 

My whole life. 

 

Now, my death carries 

A hopeful face. 

 

With this hopeful face, 

I bid you adieu. 

 

 

 

Words and Situation 

 

I still have the words, 

Because I still have the night.

 

I am not leaving 

Like a figure of departure. 

 

My sailing days are over, and 

I have landed 

And will continue to be grounded 

In philosophy 

 

To understand why the town bell rings? 

When no one lives together, 

Like a town 

Like a family

And like a human heart 

Beating together. 

 

We are one and all

We are all in one,

A representation is a part 

Of being. 

 

We share the same world, 

To soothe the agonies 

And erase the scars. 

 

 

 

Stop Quoting Dostoyevsky 

 

 

All your life gone in reading, and  

You haven't written a word. 

 

Your choice of words, 

Your fingerprints on the paper 

Everything is non-existent  

Like your signature 

Missing from your newly unpublished book. 

 

All throughout the day, 

You played with the sun rays, 

A book in your hand. 

 

There is a saying, I read somewhere: "Stop Quoting Dostoyevsky, and explain yourself." 





More poems by Sushant Thapa on BMR can be found here: https://georgedanderson.blogspot.com/2023/08/featuring-sushant-thapa.html 

 



© Sushant Thapa 

Biratnagar-13, Nepal 

 

 

Bio of the Poet: Sushant Thapa(born on 26th February, 1993) is a Nepalese poet from Biratnagar-13, Nepal who holds a Master’s degree in English literature from Jawaharlal Nehru University, New Delhi, India. He has published five books of English poetry, namely: The Poetic Burden and Other Poems (Authorspress, New Delhi, 2020), Abstraction and Other Poems (Impspired, UK, 2021), Minutes of Merit (Haoajan, Kolkata, 2021), Love’s Cradle (World Inkers Printing and Publishing, New York, USA and Senegal, Africa, 2023) and Spontaneity: A New Name of Rhyme (Ambar Publication House, New Delhi, 2023).    

Thursday, November 2, 2023

Double Book Launch: Peter Bakowsk/ Ken Bolton- Waldo’s Game & On Luck Street, 8 November in Melbourne


One of the first poets to be interviewed on Bold Monkey was Australian writer Peter Bakowski for his 2009 poetry book Beneath Our Armourhttps://georgedanderson.blogspot.com/2010/11/book-review-peter-bakowski-beneath-our.html

 

He visited one of my senior class’s at the time and gave an inspiring  talk on the art of writing poetry.  

 

Peter Bakowski has teamed up once again with legendary poet Ken Bolton: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ken_Bolton

 

The dynamic poetry duo have previously published two books: THE ELSEWHERE VARIATION (2019) and NEARLY LUNCH (available on Amazon).

 





Here’s the invite:

 

 “Helen, Ophelia and Peter are excited to invite you and your friends to the DOUBLE launch of two new full-length poetry books:

 

WALDO’S GAMEand ON LUCK STREET

 

written by PETER BAKOWSKI and KEN BOLTON

 

The DOUBLE launch starts at 6.45pm on Wednesday,

 

8 November at East Melbourne Library, 122 George Street,

 

East Melbourne 3002.

 

If you are unable to attend, either or both books 

 

can be mailed. Each book is $22.95 with $3.60 per book 

 

for postage Australia-wide. Contact pbakowski54@gmail.com”