Saturday, August 3, 2013

Three Poems by Shinjini Bhattacharjee

Me o' Clock
The day see-sawed into night
And I, standing at the edge of the fulcrum,
saw the moon rise again
into nothingness.
Cactus breath and heartbeat drops
falling into
dreary ice wallpapering the
insides of my eye.
My mind karaokes to the tune of
the waves and the winged moths
behind the bushes.
My voice peels itself to reveal the
tortured body of the shriek within.
My bare feet the daughters of
illegitimate ecstasy and misbegotten inhabitants
of the forest floor .
The blue colored tendrils from the ocean
climb up the cliff,
gift-wrap my body and soul into a
haloed hug, overpowering me.
Life is best experienced as a freefall.
I to Eye 
I woke up as a hallucination
Wrung my brain dry
Squeezed it so hard
The bomb wires exploded.
Rotten memories hanging
From the weather beaten tissues
Like forgotten stalactites.
Words rest on a
Broken lexical bed
In a tavern forever lost
Tired after long carrying
The air which miscarried
The fragrance that
The sun smothered flowers
Gave it during the Ice-Age.
You asked my parched throat
To find a mirage in the chimney.
Told me to find a shrink in the
Blank pages of the diary
You gave me.
I stand alone on stage,
While the devils give me
A standing ovation.
Crunchy Wound
Your past tense breath delves among the ruins of the countries you and I made on the straw ball tuning the wind chime. Bare arms bloom in the meadows where swan breath cracks open every cell to let in glass shaped thistle veins germinate on the asphyxiated soil clinging to the vanishing feet of dinosaurs. Shadows of the branches bookmark your cave mouth walls scratched with the alphabets I never understood. We hammer the moon with the light of the sun. See the bruises? These are the creeks made by the diapered tears placed in wooden coffins. You warm your hands by placing them in the charred staircase of your jaw, where palm tree mirages drop dead like sparrows on a hot day. Call the warped ambulances to sinew our atrophied hands with Orpheus lute, because your hair carries my voice to the Bermuda triangle, the unwashed rock below the curve of the question mark. The bedroom floor avalanches stairs into the maroon carpet below, opening out into a cliff of hoarse lullabies. The bulbs dim to turn memories into silhouettes. An eagle swoops down and carries the sun away.

Shinjini Bhattacharjee holds an M.A degree in English Literature and is a self professed jabberwocky who loves to explore the poems garbed in emotions of varied hues every moment of her life composes. Her works have been published in, or are forthcoming in The Stray Branch, Nostrovia! Poetry,White Ash Literary Magazine, and Four and Twenty Poetry, among others.

No comments:

Post a Comment