Poetry by Deeya Bhattacharya

Deeya Bhattacharya

1. The Untamed Sorrow

The moon reflects
weariness, speaks a
forbidden tongue-like
a mirror in the coagulating air,
a nascent sorrow in the cabaret of life,
leaving behind its skin of dreams.

Fillets of grief are
sausages to a cloudy eye
a perished tongue, raucous itch
of a dying hearth, of a charred home
silvery insomnia on the bosom
of burnt whispers that cajole
the journey of hugging sorrows
endless love

A naïve heart
that bade a final goodbye
amidst sickening departures
and castrated whims .

2. The Convict

This morning thousand rays
of the auburn sun
crawls into the insipid skin
of the blue dome

eyes burn in silence and anguish
of a hushed day;
pastel hues inundate the backdrop
of mind

I speak of a day of fuchsia
dreams , of a syllabi
of hyped lilies and bougainvillea
the dews that hang perilously
from their mouth………

“The Flame Of The forest”
speculates a cawing crow, in its
frustrated call for its mate,
a cloths-line hums a desolate tune
the beetles feed on a cow-dung

A desperate soul stitches
the pensive hours in the
frame of time Bats blinded
by the day hangs on to the willow
trees by the marsh. A convict, in ambush
lurches about in iron manacles

3. After Plath: Hanging God

I could cause a root to bloom
or a bird to plummet in showers
that drenches my pallid skin
a toe or a foot

The uneasiness that pecks me
the dullness that I wear
my skin, is you
The darkness gives birth to a pain
that screws courage
- the courage of colours
casting a livid glow, to scarf up a
sticking eye or a laughing brace

Oh no you are not at it; cannot
be the dream of myriad tongues
that I raise to my lips as a toast
to nothingness, howling like a
scampering wind, the topography
of scars that burn my body

Pain is good, yes scars I admit
are a grape juice blushing at
my throat silences the sienna of words
that canvass you

I could float on your words, lie still
like a gull bracing the cold stiff wind
cringing to propel its body forward
a monster chaffing and grinding. I
rise to the smell of awkwardness
that bayonets the invalid air between us
pure and clean as a baby’s skin
innocent as it breathes, mapping the blue veins
underneath the olive skin supine like
a thousand year old banyan tree
housing infinite travelogues of
life and death, of dream and despair
of tales of curios stashed away
in an old China Shop.