Dr Biswajit
Chatterjee
is a clinical & preventive cardiac physician based at Kolkata. He is a
bilingual poet & translator and has authored eighteen books till date. Recipient
of two prestigious poetry awards he has edited two magazines & is working
on a book of nonfiction to be published shortly.
The Final Exit
For Sylvia
Plath
It
had been a long and sultry summer
She
didn't know how far the journey would be
A
naked girl came running from the orphan home
And
looked like a battered burning tree.
She
thought this was the worst scene she had ever seen
And
a shrill sound came out from her frightened heart
She
thought it could be a delusion or a weird dream
Or
a blurred image of her secret art.
She
felt good that her world was going to tumble
With
memories of funerals and failed attempts of death
Only
the malignant whisper and the ashes of fireflies stay
She
had spoilt her maiden book and the bible of faith.
Images
of burnt fingers kept dancing around her chin
Before
the rings of smoke and fire had ended the final scene.
When a poet
dies
A
real minor poet was found dead in his small home today.
He
wrote the word NEGLECT in a piece of paper and died!
His
tongue and lips were dry
His
body cold and listless
His
eyes were wide open and pupils dialated...
'Extreme
heat', said the doctor who came, examined him and pronounced him dead.
'The
cause of death?' asked a neighbour.
'Cardio
respiratory failure due to heat exhaustion..
due
to extreme climate condition
and
probably the lack of empathy of his fellow writers '
said
the doctor.
'And
the government, the civil society, his estranged wife can't shy away'..he
added.
Who
couldn't prevent an young old man from dying with some honour who had no
apparent illness..
And
the doctor left.
Eleven
people including seven active poets joined the mourning.
A
frail woman in her sixties sang from Tagore
All
the seven poets had read out one poem from the dead poet's chapbook, one poem
of their own and said: 'this man deserved a little more'
A
young publisher had arranged for a cup of tea and biscuits for 15 people but a
few visitors had left before they called it quits.
It
was decided that a collection of climate poetry will be published soon in the
memory of the minor major poet on his next birthday.
She has become
a tree
They
had tamed her low with all their might
And
spoiled her curves with power
She
tried hard but gave up her fight
And
was found after eleven hours..
She
was laid in the ground with withered leaves
Embraced
by her shadow and gentle breeze
With
curious birds and nestless bees
And
the mournings of the wounded tree.
It
was a sacred place in the nature's hut
Where
people come and sit for a while
But
those men had come with a wicked smile
And
thought she was a slut.
Serial
killers of nature are still moving free
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