Tag: Shamik Banerjee

Two Poems by Shamik Banerjee

~ Randal A. Burd, Jr. ~ Leave a comment

Cricket with Father

His legs, placed by the table’s centrepiece,
Revive a retro posture—crisscrossed feet—
A style so august that it can increase
The stature of his no-frills wooden seat.
Although it seems those eyes are on the score,
In truth, they try to gauge my mother’s mood—
If fine, he might receive a snack or more
With tea—a fusion that’s immensely good.
This four-roomed place fills with his vibrant voice—
“A brilliant sixer,” “howzat,” “what a catch”—
As if a stadium’s eternal noise.
He teaches me the basics of a match,
Explaining every aspect, big or small.
I nod my head, although I know it all.

“Cricket with Father” first appeared in Pulsebeat Poetry Journal.


A Sonnet to Dream State

Mind’s Playhouse, you exhibit sundry acts,
Amusing man when he’s within the care
Of sleep. Upon your stage, he interacts
With objects, lives, and scenes that you prepare.
All say your passion’s weak for those whose bond
With quietude’s cohesive. Is it true?
However, brains that are immensely fond
Of constant thought-athletics submit to
Your drama during sleep. That is not bad,
But do your false portrayals not seem real?
A small cut leaves one screaming; turns him mad.
Or worse, a thing of hope that makes one feel
Like he has found life’s trouble-ending key;
At dawn, he’s in the same old misery.

“A Sonnet to Dream State” first appeared in Verse Virtual.




Shamik Banerjee is a poet from India. His poems have been published in Sparks of Calliope, The Hypertexts, Lighten Up Online, Westward Quarterly, and Disturb The Universe.

Two Poems by Shamik Banerjee

~ Randal A. Burd, Jr. ~ Leave a comment

The Garden

Dense boughs and variegated blooms
    That well-festooned a garden
Are dying as November births
    Pellucid forms that harden
On them, my attic's roof, and grass.
   
Now every morning when I pass
    This place, once deeply green,
A stark, white blandness greets my eyes;
    No colour's to be seen.
But still, I thank the gardener who,

With high élan, prepared the view
    For all to like last spring.
He knows: next April, once again,
    This fertile spot will bring
Fresh leaves and blossoms like before.

I step into the garden's door
    Located in my heart
And wish to plant sweet buds of love
    For those now far apart—
Shunned kindred and deserted friends—

So when my wintertime ascends
    And I begin to harden,
Watching my frame, they'll think about
    The joy drawn from this garden
Whose soil will never yield again.


Black and White

The happy wind was singing to
September’s maiden day;
The friendly Sun was clinging to
The hillcrest and the bay;
And man with his assertive crown,
Proceeded through this vibrant town;
No hurdle clogged his way.

The girls were lowly chunnering,
And boys were raucous, yelling;
The pink-tinged clouds were colouring
The heaven’s vault, their dwelling;
But not one being, large or small,
Had the minutest clue at all
What rainfrogs were foretelling.

At noon, a bellow from the skies
Alarmed the birds in flight,
The spendthrift shoppers’ sated eyes
Shrank low from shock and fright;
Each shuffling soul then rushed to find
A roof or shelter of some kind;
The day appeared as night.

But far away, that leaden clime
Perked up the rural men,
Their fields lay bare all summertime—
No raindrops fell since then;
But those oppressive days had flown,
The fields were wet, their faces shone,
And life revived again.

How strange and polar nature is,
How magical its plan!
How orderly it metes out bliss,
And hopelessness to man!
Just as it did to us that day:
With its stormy onrush turned one gay,
And turned the other wan.

“Black and White” first appeared in Westward Quarterly.




Shamik Banerjee is a poet from India. His poems have been published in Sparks of Calliope, The Hypertexts, Lighten Up Online, Westward Quarterly, and Disturb The Universe.

Two Poems by Shamik Banerjee

~ Randal A. Burd, Jr. ~ 2 Comments

The Materialist’s Misfortune

I know you like to taunt me, Ma, until
My face is red with frustration. But will
You not regard the fact that I am still
A little boy?

“You are fifteen. Go find a girl.”, you say,
But teenage is to grow, not waste away
On girlfriends. No more of this theme today!
I have my joy.

“We’re glad you got the university.
I bet you’re seeing someone.” Well, for me,
What matters right now is the bursary.
Don’t start again!

“Congrats! My son! A graduate at last!”
Now find a match before youthhood is past.”
Profession! Ma! I want to make it vast
Like other men!

“You’re thirty one. It’s getting more delayed?”
It will slow down my progress, I’m afraid.
I swear, I will, right when my future’s made.
“Okay, lets see.”

I have all that I ever sought: no strife,
A good career, and fortune, yet my life
Lacks something, Ma. I wish I had a wife—
I’m forty-three.


My Uncle’s Desk

To him, this desk was no less than
A pretty maid is to her man;
The groom, my Uncle, wedded it,
His bride, the desk, he petted it.

At it, he taught my life’s first letters—
‘The more one reads, the more one betters’;
From it, harangued and often scolded
Whenever my mischiefs unfolded.

At it, reviewed his files, accounts,
Son’s tution fees, the bills’ amounts,
The sum to borrowers he gave,
A month’s expense, how much to save;

On holidays, at break of day,
He sat at it to fully pay
(Through lens of lunettes spectacles)
Attention to his articles.

He decked it with a flower vase,
A flagon old, an hourglass,
A penholder, a blunted comb,

And picture of the sacred ‘Om’.
When minded to hilarity,
Made aunt’s and children’s mockery
While sitting there and taking sips
Of Ginger tea with grinning lips.

And when in grave and tetchy mood,
Strict language formed his attitude,
But not for long this state would be
When he sat there for poetry.

He sat there one full night to catch
The Cricket World Cup’s final match,
And all throughout the coming day,
His run-down eyes upon it lay.

The countless verses that he penned,
The letters for his dearest friend,
The tomes of novelettes he read;
Each happened at this very stead.

Time passed. He aged, so aged his bride—
With oldhood comes life’s ebbing tide;
His movements slowed and came to rest
When Parkinson’s impinged his chest.

Brute Fate! it took from him the right
To feed and bathe, to hold and write;
With each day, it severely wrung
And stole the power of his tongue.

He summoned me on his last day
Through my aunt to make his last say—
She gave a note, it read: ‘My will:
Before I’m rendered cold and still,

‘I’m passing down my desk to you.
I hope, like me, you’ll love it too.’
I smiled at him, his eyes looked pleased—
Took one last breath and got released.

Before my eyes, his desk now stands—
No woodworms, cracks or trace of ants;
Still burnished, solid, gives a glow
As if produced a while ago.

I sit here now and tell my mind:
“The dearest thing he left behind,
Still keeps us close though we’re apart,
And bears the imprint of his heart.”

“My Uncle’s Desk” first appeared in The Hypertexts.




Shamik Banerjee is a poet from India. Some of his poems are forthcoming in The Hypertexts, Lighten Up Online, Westward Quarterly, and Disturb The Universe.