We grew old,
Sick and weak.
And before we could guess,
What was coming,
We lost our grip and fell.
But our Master was kind;
Gave us a cushion,
To soften the blow.
With eyes shut,
A subtle smile on His lips,
Oblivious to our joys
And sorrows,
He said, “Goodbye.”
Like last year,
This year
too,
Delhi’s spring flowers,
The semals
Are in full bloom.
But their sensuality, Voluptuousness,
Riots of dark, passionate colors,
Their thick, exposed flesh
No longer give any joy.
They bring on a lump in my throat,
Bringing forth images
That I keep kicking
Into the dustbin of my mind.
Last year
Too,
Many Semals fell everyday,
Making way for more.
Those that went, returned.
And those that returned, went.
No gain, but no loss either.
So it was easy to accept
As God’s will,
Mother Nature’s special way of rejuvenation.
Their sight aroused great joy and elation.
But this year, their blooming, falling, getting swept aside
Forces me to dwell on the hidden meaning,
The horrors lurking around surfaces, around corners.
Well, who knows.
Next year, the semals
Might be the only ones
Around,
Freed from the forever greedy, tormenting human eyes.
—Jasbir Chatterjee
This poem is now on poemhunter.com also. https://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-apocalypse-7/
Demons of December
And January
Have gone.
Gone
with them are pollution,
Smog, chills, mist, and fog
Angels of February
Are coming in
with their clear blue skies,
Bobbing flowers and soothing breezes…
Come,
Let’s celebrate,
My dear Friends.
Enjoy being alive,
Even if
It is only
For a little while
For this too
Shall pass
And Harsh Summer
will be in…
India, my beloved Motherland
Is a richly endowed, vast
Country,
Gifted with a talented, fast
Breeding population
of colossal proportions.
But human tragedies
Too occur in colossal proportions.
Hundreds,
thousands,
Millions
perish here in man-made disasters.
But their lives.
Have little value
Because their space
Is soon gobbled up
By twice as many.
Faulty bridges,
Rough roads,
Illegal buildings,
Cramped houses,
with no fire safety measures,
Child laborers,
Huge fires,
Huge disasters
Well, who cares!
Certainly not
Our selfish, corrupt politicians
with evil agendas,
Jingoistic inclinations,
Hankering only for vote banks,
Moving foolish Bills,
On rollercoasters,
Smuggling refugees
From neighbouring countries.
Insensitive, callous,
They rape my beloved country,
Like a crazy, horny
Bridegroom on his first night…
Well, who knows when this
Dark night ends,
while the callous
Relentless
Juggernaut of Time rolls…
This poem is now on poemhunter.com also. Link: https://www.poemhunter.com/poem/my-beloved-country-5/
Here is today’s screenshot of the site today, 15 December 2019. It makes me feel proud to see that I am still quite popular with this poem showing as the latest addition…☺️
A few days ago, in October 2019, on my way home from work, I heard an e-rickshaw driver calling out in Hindi,
“Chahiye ek savari,
Halki ho ya bhari,
Nar ho ya nari!”
His co-passengers were giggling. I also chuckled as I mentally translated this into English. The translated version too sounded very good.
Here it is.
“Need just one more passenger.
Of whatever gender.
Lighter or heavier.”
Like plants, even poems sometimes spring up in the most unlikely places, don’t they?
Well, I stretched the poem a little bit more. It was so much fun! Here you go.
Together,
Fellow Traveller,
We will move further,
Ahead, past the boulder.
Whether
You are sadder or happier
Today, it doesn’t matter.
See if you can add some more lines to it. I would love to know.
After months of planning,
Washing, cleaning,
Dusting, polishing,
We welcome Diwali
Into our homes.
Like a swaggering bridegroom
He enters our homes
With unruly, drunken friends
With their dazzling,
Noisy, earth shattering crackers.
For a brief period of time
We forget our sorrows
And we celebrate
Like we’re crazy,
Like the world is ending.
But before we realize it,
Diwali is gone.
Left behind are the staring deities.
With sore throats, congested chests,
We steel ourselves for the harsh winter ahead.
For a Delhiite,
A post Diwali hangover means
Smudged rangolis,
Dried up flower petals,
Dewy mornings,
Cloudy skies,
Sore throats,
Congested chests,
While Lord Ganesha looks on,
Nonchalantly,
As we prepare for another harsh winter ahead…
A Shadow has nothing of its own.
Its shape, clothes,
All come from its owner.
But look at it long and hard,
And you will feel its presence…
Elegant, dignified in its silence,
A character of its own;
A black beauty…
In life too,
You needn’t be
Rich, famous.
You may be
A beggar;
But you can still look
Strikingly elegant, dignified;
Your character, morality intact,
A human, a black beauty.
On 6 October 2019 (Ashtami), Aridip Chatterjee, a young 12th class student, got up to recite a poem in the Poetry Recitation Competition during Timarpur’s 106th Durga Puja festival.
As soon as he began, I got the biggest surprise of my life. He announced that the poem he was going to recite, ‘Staying Afloat,’ was written by “Our Very Own Mrs. Jasbir Chatterjee!”
I felt deeply honoured, humbled, and privileged because rarely ever do poets get their due appreciation while they are still alive…
Click here and see the video…https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=IB6pKM7qAWk
Thanks Aridip, Our Very Own Goltu (that’s his pet name).
In ones, twos, threes,
Little groups,
They fell,
Into the lap of their Maker;
Still looking gorgeous…
Grieved, missed
By their loved ones
Still left on the tree…
Who knows;
Certainly not those
Innocent flowers,
Where their Maker
Will throw them into next;
what permutation,
which combination.
Inside a book,
Or around a temple idol’s neck,
In a woman’s hair,
Or in a flower seller’s basket,
In a brothel or a home
A tulip, orchid, or a rose,
A dog, cat, bird, reptile, or a human.
