Poems by Debjit Chatterjee

An OId Dream

a poem by Debjit Chatterjee

It was so dark
Cold and misty
Some faces and places
And I can’t find myself in the picture.

I search still,
A little boy
Lost somewhere in the woods.

The Aftermath

a poem by Debjit Chatterjee

I read the morning papers
to find our kin converted into numbers;

I glance at those watery eyes,
hear those disseminated wails
they are our own, aren’t they.

Every finger, every toe
a story and a woe;

If tears could drown,
the people and a town,
the ocean would’ve frowned.

Our imagination has run dry
and reality has emerged,
with humans who were once beings.
for once we’d rather been fishes.
alas: fate always doesn’t grant our wishes.

The Pendulum Awaiteth

a poem by Debjit Chatterjee

So wasn’t that yesterday,
when time struck the human face,
and fury redefined itself.

Just another moment gone
Noah’s Ark nor Jesus strong,
totally unavailable.

Children of a raging sea
long lost were, now so free
no more fear to swallow them.

What emotions should we feel,
confusion and a square meal,
is quite appropriate.

The pendulum which rocks time,
and makes savoury sweet the wine,
never sleeps.

The Percussionist

a poem by Debjit Chatterjee

So there he played
The lounge enthralled in rhythm
He strained and paused
The essence of pure delight
Smoke kept company
Moods dimmed and blazed
And so he played
And skittered in time
Some fettered notes
And bettered woes
A life through music
Not a life of music
He contemplated
He had surely lost the bargain
The strings couldn’t bear
His animosity to share
And so he played

Poetry Revisited and Discarded

a poem by Debjit Chatterjee

And then it began
Rather brazen, I guess
The song of the woods
The raga of the hills
The fragrance of the earth
The beauty of its frills
But do you not see the rot within
The purity of the seraphim
And since when did words take sides
And rip apart the world too wide
Who cares to sing for a slum
The clouds as such take the “glum”
Verses being the sign of the times
The “blood of our own” is down in the lines
It’s always been “love this, love that”
Let’s have ballads and sonnets for a sewer rat
So is that all what’s left of us
No more words to waste on the fuss

The Cursed Land

a poem by Debjit Chatterjee

The clock ticks once more;
a dead poet’s frozen words,
those pages smite the spiteful heap
but rests a while to cry and weep.

It’s a long walk;
once there was a snowy hill,
an old hag treads on deaf and blind,
sans the world she knew behind.

Oh: what a waste;
the miffed earth awaits the soggy breeze,
a stifled neck still, in a hanging noose,
his plough is dug beneath his shoes.

It’s just as bad;
he was an urchin sans a care,
lived on the streets,ate with the dogs,
they stoned him down, he stole their pots.

But that was yesterday;
the tracks his home, a pedlar old,
his wife left early, his sons were bored,
a station, his limericks, and him no more.

Yeah: is it really true;
those lovely stained glasses, and a voice much hoarse
the kids he taught, loved and caned,
missed a stair, his eyes slowly waned.

What can be done;
he dragged his carts, he laid those bricks,
his wife, his kids, some food to eat,
a roof that crashed, quite hard to beat.

Its best left unsaid;
there was once a little girl,
pigtails, satchel and a mind to learn,
a school, a hell and left to burn.