Jyotirmoy Shishu

Jyotirmoy Shishu

Ria Chowdhury

Epitome of Nothing


Life! A tiny sardonic narrative
Takes twists and turns
Breaking all tediousness
Struggling us to breathe
The sombre day, with a bright spark
Of Darkness added.
And my dog fell ill
Also I could not remember the title of the book.
Web of words were like riddle
And thus I failed.
Every time the perpetual denial
Comes to cease the kiss.
But, begging is cliché
She is fairer, I know, with thick mascara.
Comparison is tawdry and
My libido falls sick when I cry
I shunned the malignity
And you were left, the only precious thing.
You, the center of your world, and,
Mine too.
With all the blasphemy, climbed
The kirkyard
And call for someone's death.
Just to live, just for freedom.
My nobility can't illuminate
And my love might fail.
Earthquake mitigates pertness
As people do sweat and bleed.
I pondered while she cried,
"Cause death or die"
All pupils dilated and she cried again-
"If not any just be blind"






Why can't you write?


I had a soul, trekking
Up the mountain peaks,
Where they said-
The color of the poetry will be
Just the color of the stars.
Each word adorned with stardust.
I had my lousy poetry, trekking up there
In every sleep. In every dream.
Armors painted with
Pale shade of gloominess
Paused the felicity,
Paused the starlight- Midway.
The poetry I craft on Earth, changes everyday.
Constructs everyday.
Deconstructs everyday.

I exhaled an avalanche
Raindrops hit the roof top
The young author died
And the color of my poetry changed.
Apologies. Apologies. Apologies.
Thousands of them
Millions of time, I asked my poetry back.
My words plundered. It does not rain now.
Perhaps the sound of water is too easy.
Some futile poems, I discarded.

I kept seeking for the color of Air.
A room full of intellectual debates,
Chokes my poetry.
Peeping through the window, I asked my poetry back
But-
They could only give me a handful of Air.

Perhaps, I cannot culminate.
Perhaps, I am not a
P O E T.



Transmogrification

Last night
You kissed my mask
The alcohol
Wrote to you the story of my
Melancholy.
You were bleeding
And-
I had sent the flowers elsewhere.
May be, to the dead children.
The Gods called you for Love
But, you liked to be in the vicinity
Of my Falsehood.
I reckoned your bruises and it was more than mine.
It got difficult to sing elegies when you died.
The season of your smell ended
But-
I had you
And
You had me.
Wrapped in a little casket
The deplorable plight of the child is better now.
He smiles.
He finds you in my poetry.
And the woman next door,
She finds you in my euphorious sketches.
You were unkempt, because,
You chose not the truth.
I have watched people turning into lions
And lizards.
It was my turn now, to suffice you.
So I breathed out-
My falsehood and the smell of my mother.
The shrill cry from next room faded
As it bizzarly saw me
Making my falsity my Truth.











  Ria Chowdhury


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