On Remembrance

The view is growing smaller
From the glass at the back
In the hills, the sky is still close
As a band of gypsies passes by
Their music lingering behind
In the pinching coldness of dusk
Eyes glisten in the wilderness
As the view grows even smaller

Late in the night, the forest blooms
And somewhere far a nightingale hums
The voice lost as a stream nears
And in the vast stillness, moonlight
Glistens like pearls on her neck
The wheels keep rolling, farther
To somewhere, to nowhere
And the view keeps growing smaller

 

This poem first appeared in Vol. 2, Issue 3 (December 2016) of The Literary Herald.

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The Haunted

In terse reflections of heartfelt delusions
Under morose twilights of caged despair
Stay haunted souls beside open wounds
For ghosts beloved may yet trudge back
In glittering plaques with long lost names
Or headstones quiet with withering grace
Flicker memories soaked in sepia flawed
That savagely burn in bosoms hollow
Thus fifty-seven winters have ravaged by
The dim mausoleum of a mother’s hope
And fifty-seven more may still light by
Their invincible pyre of glorious despair

Born Into The Storm

Two young flowers in a grim winter’s morn
One for tender love, one to ride the storm
Waving with the wind, breathing in the blues
Waving, waiting, breathing through the noose
Two weary flowers in a grim winter’s morn
One of them is wild, one of them is gone
Fighting with her fate, sinking in the storm
Waiting, fighting, riding through the storm
Fighting with the wind, sinking with the storm
Two dead flowers as out comes the sun.

 

A little tribute from my side to Mandela, Gandhi and every other great of similar ilk and life.

So we meet. Hello.

I’m Dipankar and I…wait, that’s trivial. Forget that. Do you like poetry? It’s a mysterious little thing. If you don’t really want to look, you probably would never see it. But if you do see it…damn, it sort of knocks you out. That’s what I like about it. So when I’m not being an engineer or a management consultant (or other forms of trivial), I do poetry. And fiction. And some plain old ramblings (otherwise called essays). I’m not great, or easy though. I’ve read Marquez and I’ve read Keats (and if you’ve not done the same, close this tab, get to them. I can wait.) so I know what’s great. I’m just a fan of theirs with a lot to say and nothing to lose. So, I write. And, by the looks of it, you read. Fortuitous! Let me know what you make of it. See ya.

Also, here’s a pic of John Keats posing at gunpoint to make this blog post somewhat conventional.

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