Shamik Banerjee is a poet and poetry reviewer from the North-Eastern belt of India. He loves taking long strolls and spending time with his family. His deep affection with Solitude and Poetry provides him happiness.Short bio about Shamik Banerjee
I hope there you have cushions to make jumps; long, tensioned draperies to clutch with paw; for gamboling, soft, formable clay-lumps and leathern slipshoes to busily gnaw. Do you often look at Mother and me and bethink how you wheedled her for fish; how in her absence entered furtively and overturned the cover of the dish? The Sun, perhaps there, is more shimmery; come iridescent patchworks after rain; and woodlets mirandous and timbery; no bliss to chase; no warfare against pain. When you were here, you had a houseful of toys; you'd tousle every spoon, bowl and platter; but that for us was sweet musical noise; and now the silence maddens like a clatter. Happy I am- from earth's durance you're freed; no longer for manumission you'll crave; Man wants for himself grace but sows his greed and bewails thereafter till calls his grave. To stay there, I know your ambitionis, for none would want the world's fugacious worth. Could you plea Heaven's potentate for me so he takes me too and keeps us in mirth?
O' ask not, for whom the Piano keys, will play in weakness of your vacuity. Ask not if decent airs from migrant seas, would yearn for a new estuary. Ask not of roads, if bright sunlight will quail; ask not if grass 'round the paling, will live for years; ask not if weary nights will peace avail after I have battled Love's erumpent tears. I will not tread upon a luring mont, though motley petals, it'll towards me throw. I will not fill my chalice from a font despite its sparkle, promises to grow. But in the long-haul, if my Piano's notes, entunes a little and to your heart does play; then ask its composition, long ago for you I wrote- Despite the grief, how did the spirit stay?
Dirge in the Seasons
The Eolian wind comes and showers, upon my home's trees and flowers; from beds of the sea and blows of the cay, when the Sun in June is stinging deep, and local meres, retain to keep, to my dismay. When freshet of the Monsoon time, usurps the pleasant mood of clime, and seeing so, unsprightly lie, the byways and the twitchels clogged, and roots of Joy in me are flogged; you come from Sky. And when in frost, the air of chill, patrolling o'er the upland hill, does bring me fever's drabby thorn, and doddering I, within its flu, whilst sighing you to my rescue, I see you in the morn. It's only in the bloom of spring, the parklands wear the Tulips' ring, and o'er its field, the plovers glide, but still, no merry, does come near, for you, my heart, keeps lying here- unoccupied.
Heart's pulse- agog, will wait from yesterday morning— 'old friends will clap, meep-horns will flap' then shades of aglow red above the corn will turn to eve and nighttide will be born. At Eleven, the ticking hands will say— 'old friends will clap; meep-horns will flap' candles afire will brighten the way and leaves will embellish the door's display. When Twelve is seen, but heard is not a sound— 'old friends didn't clap; meep-horns didn't flap'; all visions expected are not around but few empty tumblers and an open ground.
A letter in my bag from my childhood years; a letter I received a long time ago; does bring into the eye old thoughts and tears and of this certain truth to show: That love of youth is the strongest be and brightest like the Summer skies; purest as Zion's sanctity, spectrums of utopian dyes. No segregator can part like a soul from itself disjoins not; whose strength, a man, carries in his heart and in silence, he's with old love's thoughts. Then Present seems vapid, heart seeks the past: first years of love; first lovely years; but a letter to me is all at last, with her image and the words and full of tears.
In Dream’s Kingdom
With ease, the heart would simply say of you who's absent from my sight, gone to a staith, so far away, to visit in my dreams tonight. Then that shall mend my lost love's pain where once, new life had awoken, and fill my park with flowers again, rebuild the walls now broken. But in Dream's kingdom, I cannot like Wake's, my desires exercise, they come not as when willed or sought nor are in the power of my eyes.
My Door is strong. I know him- fly from him no sare flakes; decay could never low him; Yet why does my dear Door ache? It aches for the spent foretime: My Lucia, when she, to his doorcase chime would come and peer for me. Old time, ah! merry; old time, ah! sweet— joydom was in the knocks, when from the stairs he heard her feet-- would stunt all hearts and clocks; would agog muchly be my eyes, for full a-greeting that she came; I opened the Door-- a great surprise! near his bright doorframe. My Door's still strong. I trust him- though now he greets not her light heels; sorrow and pain now rust him, fly all the flakes with brazen squeals. With each footstep now ascents fast, my Door frenzies, a-baiting me; but that is someone else who passed; not Lucia, awaiting me.
When ere with the dawning morn, Suf's bridal service will be held, then why shall I keep a downcast heart while she would so happily part? Then happiest I ought to be, for Suf, to in bride's vestment see; for, does sooth love not reflect the lover and in all occasions, parallel her? Then why shall I invite the sword to stab me and have love implored? And why shall I depression heed though her parting will my bosom bleed?
This month’s theme is inspired by the yearning to memories, humans and places which we experience emotionally and struggle perhaps expression them.