Amanita Sen has published two volumes of poetry, “Candle In My Dream” and “What I don’t Tell you”. Her works have been published in numerous journals, both online and print versions. She is a mental health worker living in Kolkata, India.
that befalls after the doors are slammed shut.
It faintly bears for me something
more than the echoing closure,
like the sounds of shared laughters,
the humming of teenage gossip.
The memory chose to retain
the unsullied joy bred from innocence.
Winter afternoons carry in the sounds of
voices that never apprehended end
of the happy murmur, the bonhomie.
But are now resigned to the fate of an
abortive end of their easy flow of smiles.
Voiceless they ask, “Isn’t there any residual love?”
Had this not been so overused-
this play with the word “sadness”,
it would have made a great line
for the poem we write with our days.
Our sadness is tinged with the yellow
akin to that of a tropical winter sunset.
It is foggy with queries that simply rise,
knowing too well they have no answers.
It is strung with the year-end farewell tune.
Our sadness, shared, like the same waft
we breathe , do not voice a word; as if
that will rob off some magic from this
all knowing silence, that holds and heals.
In sadness we are one, that is how it feels.
Fatherhood
With the first of his brawls
you become the tree for him.
You feel the pull of roots in
each of his insignificant moves.
His lively being is the sap you
draw forth to spread yourself and
this tree-life feels primitively natural,
taking to the shoes of fatherhood
as effortlessly as the flowers break
into the tree, as unpretentious too.
You spare a thought or two perhaps,
on how you would be in his memory.
You wish your shade is cool, comforting
enough to be reminisced upon fondly.
Friendships that cease to
be
that befalls after the doors are slammed shut.
It faintly bears for me something
more than the echoing closure,
like the sounds of shared laughters,
the humming of teenage gossip.
The memory chose to retain
the unsullied joy bred from innocence.
Winter afternoons carry in the sounds of
voices that never apprehended end
of the happy murmur, the bonhomie.
But are now resigned to the fate of an
abortive end of their easy flow of smiles.
Voiceless they ask, “Isn’t there any residual love?”
Our sadness
Sadness comes in various shades.Had this not been so overused-
this play with the word “sadness”,
it would have made a great line
for the poem we write with our days.
Our sadness is tinged with the yellow
akin to that of a tropical winter sunset.
It is foggy with queries that simply rise,
knowing too well they have no answers.
It is strung with the year-end farewell tune.
Our sadness, shared, like the same waft
we breathe , do not voice a word; as if
that will rob off some magic from this
all knowing silence, that holds and heals.
In sadness we are one, that is how it feels.
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