Voices Within: Nandita Samanta

Nandita Samanta a resident of Saltlake, Kolkata, is a trilingual poet, author, reviewer, freelance counsellor, an artist (abstract art), Her works feature in many International and national anthologies, newspapers, magazines, webzines and journals. Her poetry collection ‘Scattered Moments’ finds a place of honour in many prestigious libraries in Kolkata, it is being translated into French and will be republished in the language soon. Her poems have been translated before in many languages and were also aired in popular US and UK radio channels. Her paintings, at various exhibitions in India have been showcased and sold.


In another galaxy~ 

In another world, maybe,
far away from this earth,
in another time and space
ruled by phantasmal miracles,
I’ll take off the barbed shackles
from my bleeding chest,
and, let my chaste blood,
as cold as ice, drip on your lips of lies,
freeze the unvoiced despise.
Maybe in another lifetime
in another dimension
the poison of your mind
taste as good as aged wine,
intoxicated, I’ll take a thousand strides
on the soundless errant path
in the pulsing borrowed breath called life,
in a virtuous hymn of infinite longings
sing, the last melody of love and mirth,
playing the final strums
on my breaking heartstrings.

 A Secret 

In the quietude of the night, the sky grew darker
one shade at a time, with the stroke of each hour.
The blue crest of the autumn night spread around,
the moon peeped through the ivory mist down to the town.
Standing on the terrace in trance, I trace an ambrosia,
the serried multitude of the stars forming patterns.
Maddening dark firmament; the vast cosmic ocean,
a Heaven and a Pandemonium
wreck a havoc,
my chest gets tattooed with a speckled fluorescent chaos, that is infinite and eternal.
The tongue in every star speaks to me,
each star has its own language!
The dead midnight is the noon of my thoughts
that mounts me to the zenith of my imagination.
The Cupid buries an intimate secret,
a love story between me and my zodiac-
the privileged partner of the Chiron...
hails from a deceitful world.
Martyr

There is a funeral again today of a friend,
remains will be placed in an urn after to ashes he burns,
Death he never dread!
So, to him respect was paid;
the medals, the country’s flag wrapped
around the numb body...as he was laid.
A coffin perhaps, after years the cosiest bed.
Immersing the remains in water, the soul is freed,
an earthly liberation of a martyr,
his valour and valiancy to silently enrich the alluvium of a river.
We vouch a martyr is an immortal hero,
doesn’t that sound very hollow?
They die a death each day, in superfluous power play.
Martyrs are men who have lost it all
fighting for no cause, scapegoats of political brawls,
themselves not free to decide, vested instructions they abide.
They pledge to die for the country’s honour,
but, to a dishonest leaders command
disgraced, painfully says goodbye.
Go ask the parents to know the truth,
who had dreamt of an old age with the youth,
...what have they lost, at what cost?
Years after freedom nobody’s free
‘Freedom’ has never been a guarantee,
this decree in paper costs blood,
it costs lives,
on it a thousand schemers thrive!
Terrorists, fascists, fanatics,
the racketeers, those free of any fetters,
money and power to them the most matter.
We are fettered in the mind, to the truth turn blind,
until the conscience is freed of greed
‘Freedom’ will remain seven letters,
alone and for ages
the kith and the kin would be the ones to mourn for -
The Flag wrapped Martyrs.

WHO WILL
When in a cornfield thistles grow,
the nature doesn’t raise an eyebrow,
seeds still bathe in sunlight,
seedlings sprout and fruits grow,
butterflies dance in the meadows
in delight.
When a snake slithers into the Grass-of-Parnassus,
creepers still creep and climbers climb the truss,
caterpillars crawl, the birds take a flight,
the night stands vigil for the dying daylight.
Nature moves at its normal pace,
confused is a human mind,
slippery as beetle's carapace
always against the time race!
Beliefs die unnatural deaths,
divided between facts and faith.
This ethical code of human psyche
skeptic yet, expectations high-key,
Who’ll explain to me,
Oh! Who’ll explain to me?

Voices Within - Complete List of Poets :: Setu, January 2019

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