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Category Archives: POETRY

Opposite lines

Opposite lines

A poem with alternate lines being romantic and the reverse

For you my darling I’d go anywhere

As long as you pay my business class fare

For you my sweet I will do anything
As long as I am paid for it in cash kind or Bling

For you my beloved I’d write a whole song

But only if you agree to go away for long

For you my dear lover I’d give up my life

As long as you don’t ever get near my wife

 

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Phenomenal Girl

Phenomenal Girl

The beaming smile that dazzles all
And hides the hurt deep in her eyes
The eyes that tell a unique tale
Of one so young and yet so wise
She runs she sells she works she laughs
The strays find comfort in her arms
Her two wheeled steed will come at once
Whenever there’s a call for arms
All and sundry bank on her
But who will hold her when she cries

 

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Naquab

Naquab

In the flesh we have never met
She’s in a veil but yet
She’s always in my mind and heart
Which distance veil age society can not part
A vision of her in the morn
Quite makes my day. I am lovelorn

 

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About Poetry

About Poetry

Im no poet
And I know it
But rhyming is easy
When I’m not busy

Words strung together at random
Do not poetry make
Rhymes are passe
But metres at stake

 

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A Favourite food

A Favourite food

The exercise was to write about your favourite food using 5 senses.
My attempt

The amber liquid
And the tinkling sound
The peaty flavour
So smooth it goes down
The aroma of nectar
Single malt I’ll be bound

 

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Reflections. Poems by Tanuka Bhaumik, a Review

Reflections. Poems by Tanuka Bhaumik, a Review

Reflections, Poems by Tanuka Bhowmik, a Review
It is highly presumptuous of me to try to review a book of Poetry, as I have only rudimentary acquaintance with this art form. In our youth we professed a love for poetry and spouted Neruda for much the same reasons as we took up palmistry, to impress ladies. My own attempts to write poetry take a strange turn and end up as limericks, often unprintable. Serious poetry is rarely attempted sober, and incomprehensible once sober. But those who can’t; criticise, and the poet herself asked me to give an honest opinion, having greater faith in my critical facilities than I do, so who am I to complain?
Poetry, I thought, had to either rhyme, or be incomprehensible. Tanuka’s Poems did not fit in either category, so I was confused. Even an unschooled prosaic hack like me could figure them out, and moreover, enjoy them. Those that didn’t hit my head straight away, went a bit lower, and hit straight on the heart.
Poetry also could be I suppose, saying a great deal in very few words. Therefore these qualify.
The cover is beautiful, playing on the title, a reflection of a gull striking the water, in a golden yellow backdrop.
Tanuka’s reflections are categorised in six groups;
Social and Political, reflecting her social and political conscience;
Love, the imagery from her romantic thoughts;
Pain, the picture of her soul;
Reflections, a shadow of her thoughts;
Others, kaleidoscopic images from her consciousness;
And finally, Translations from Tagore, which are a reflection of her religion. For all true Bongs, their religion is the truly secular worship of Rabindranath.
It was the last section that truly floored me, for only the very brave attempt to translate their reigning deity, and the really talented succeed. Having known the original pieces, I could realise that Tanuka’s translations, reflect both the sense and the rhythm, a rare feat.
My personal favourites were many, but I will mention a few here.
One is” Words”, from the political section, which was about the bathos of the chatterereti deliberating the future of the dispossessed. The Poets angst and frustration are starkly evident.
Another is” Love in the times of Cholera”, named after my favourite novel, another surrealistic take on passion.
“Meal times” I liked because it rhymed, had a lovely beat, on a fuzzy warm subject, like comfort food.
But the one that touched me the most was “For my Daughter”, because they touched a nerve. I miss my daughters, as they have both left the nest.
Decades ago, when editing our college magazine, I had published a poem by this poet which I did not quite understand. Mean minded classmates had complained that I had done so as she was a PYT. This, in fact, she was, and still is, going by the picture in the back jacket. But this brilliant book vindicates my stand, and I tell my pals “So there! She always was a Poet, only you philistines didn’t know it!”to borrow from my favourite poet, Ogden Nash.
Looking forward to more such reader friendly poems from this poet, good job Authors Press, make this a bestseller.

 

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Girls, Chapter 21 of Memory, a Novella

Girls, Chapter 21 of Memory, a Novella

Girls, Chapter 21 of Memory, a Novella
Boy developed many passions as he grew up, to top up his addiction to reading, which he had developed early in life. He was keenly interested in Cinema, Music, Theatre, Arts, Travel, and Poetry; and became involved in Social Work, Adventure Sports, Wildlife, Camping, even Martial Arts. He also developed into a keen foodie.
But the one passion that led to all the rest was one that he shared with the entire male heterosexual adolescent population; GIRLS!
It is said that around the time one enters the teens all boys are afflicted with two infestations, but Bong boys are inflicted with three. Whilst everyone finds a dark smudge discolouring their upper lip and the sudden transformation of every female human not closely related by blood suddenly transforming into this mesmeric being, bong kids have the additional burden of poetry bubbling within them. All three are inevitable and equally irresistible. Boy was no exception.
Being a thin dark lanky bespectacled bookworm, Boy’s interest in the fairer species was not reciprocated, and his confidence in making an approach run was near absolute zero, that is, minus 273 degrees. His being in a boy’s school did not help matters.
Then one day, a miracle occurred. Deeply uncomfortable in mixed company as always, Boy reverted to his standard defence mechanism, making wisecracks. He heard some feminine giggles amongst the usual sniggers and was mortified. Nature, with her generosity in providing him with melanin had made it impossible for him to blush, but he was hot under the collar.
This was routine for him. But suddenly, looking up, he noticed that those pretty eyes were not looking at him with derision, but with interest!
He tentatively tried cracking a few more jokes, and was thrilled to notice that the young ladies were not laughing at him, but at his jokes. This transformed him. He became the insufferable class joker. His caustic wit and sarcasm kept him within perilous proximity of a sound thrashing by his more robust classmates, and got him sent out of class regularly by irate teachers.
He also discovered that certain young ladies were more impressed by his vast storehouse of irrelevant trivia, a by-product of his voracious reading. (Reader, remember, that was the pre Google era, where information wasn’t a tap away.) And those certain young ladies also read books and enjoyed talking about them. His life was made.
Boy had a major complex about his unflattering looks, and despite great enthusiasm, his very modest success as an athlete. That is why he tried extra hard to impress with whatever meagre talents he did posses.
He discovered that a striking young lady was a ghazal and thumri aficionado, and pretended to be one too. Though he couldn’t sing, he could at least listen and admire. Soon, he developed a genuine keen interest in this genre.
Similarly, he discovered that Spicmay, the society promoting classical music and arts, was patronised largely by young ladies, and that the jocks steered well clear of it. He promptly joined, and suffered many long evenings with the Dagar brothers droning on, or some Diva dancing, or the caterwauling of some strange instrument until it all began to make sense, and enthral him.
With equally dubious motive he trailed along art galleries staring incomprehensibly at weird squiggles, and slept through a screening of (aesthetes, please don’t die of shock) Fellini’s ‘Eight and a Half’ in the company of intellectual ladies. But it paid rich dividends. Today he loves World Cinema, and collects prints of Indian Masters.
But it was not only wimpy arty stuff that that he got into in his single minded pursuit of beauty. He went trekking with the short haired sporty kinds, and developed a lifelong love of the outdoors. He went to all night Rock concerts with the chain smoking spiky haired beauties, only to become a devotee of Jim Morrison, Bob Marley, and the Man from Tennessee.
His very brief foray into martial arts was not inspired by Bruce Lee like the rest of his generation, but comely young lass who gave coaching. Like all the other ladies of various talents this coach too was oblivious of his passion, but Boy developed an unfounded confidence which helped him face up to roughnecks in his delinquent later youth.
Poetry was the one art which beat him, and still does, though he faked it then and fakes it now, (his tastes and talents were more inclined to limericks) as there is no greater magnet for the soulful lady than poetry. Although in his early teens he did spout heartfelt poetry and wrote them too, quite sincerely, for his then current crush, but thankfully those have long since disappeared. You can blame that on his Bong genes.
As you can see, Boy did not discriminate. As long as she was female, and would tolerate his company, Boy would happily tag along. But unfortunately the reverse wasn’t true. Although these ladies tolerated Boy’s company for the entertainment value for short spells, they soon moved on. But in their wake, they left Boy enriched with new interests and passions.
Did Boy die a bachelor then? No, dear reader, and a little more patience will tell you the How and the Why? It’s just a couple of chapters away.
Written for Nanowrimo Extended smile emoticon
copyright (c) Soumya Mukherjee

 

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