Updated: Jun 5, 2022
Recently, Dipanjan Bhattacharjee's poems were chosen as "BEST ENTRY" from three of many prompts held in April: "Gazing at Moon from the Balcony", "Feeding the Homeless" and "The Bliss of Solitude." His remaining 4 "Best Entries" were chosen among 4 "Anything Friday" offerings.
Yon skies I behold; secret arms of the ebony night, Enfold the abysmal swathes with scads of nitid stars, And thence the shy gibbous orb with its silver light, Blushes with little a tint of roseate scars, And unveil to me tales of faeries and nymphs, As I celebrate the most savored oneiric glimpse. Ah! But I can still feel its charm o'er my eyes, The dazzling silhouette in ivory casket shine. There's but melancholy behind the jocund skies, As no man has ever claimed the moon as "mine". They fete its glimpse from yonder lands on earth, But ne'er desire to proffer a tittle share of mirth. Oft they despise the silver beaut with brute censure, And hurl profanity for the stigma it holds; The alluring charm and resplendence grandeur, Is all perhaps too ghoulish and macabrely bleak and cold. Yet the bards of ages and eons ere in their verses quoth, The moon gleams amorous for the ones with a noble oath. Lo! Hither I perch solitary in my balcony by the balustrade, Quite too drenched in the showers of the pristine moon, I weave dreams beyond the clouds yet I'm ne'er afraid, Of stigmas that as scars hath contused it swoon. It needs us all to befriend it and share our tales, Of happy brooks, magical trees and secret vales.
© Dipanjan Bhattacharjee
"Feeding the Homeless" Behold lo! Peregrine humans art they, And skies for 'em art bleak and grey, And the moon ne'er flaunts its treasured beaut. They have bare soil yet no root, And roam adrift thru' the open roads. I can write pages of poems and odes, But what ode can be as sweet as food; When cussed a life greets their mortalhood? When hunger reins those hapless souls, And make 'em crave for nutrient bowls, No poetry can then serve 'em bliss, But seem incursive like a serpent's hiss. Ay! Hither thus hearst now, We ow'st glory and thus must vow, We must feed those hapless ones, And fete fore'er this crowning chance. Fetch the bowls of grains to 'em, Let 'em few moments sans mayhem, Bide in joy and breathe at ease, And savor the zephyrs cockling trees, Serve 'em ne'er for a tinselled name, Nor for glory or a phoney fame, We must from our heart and soul, Serve 'em as our humane goal, Feed 'em food and thus new smiles, And aid 'em earn for the remaining miles, Benevolent souls and healers we need, Not just a bunch of flamboyant breeds, Learn to serve those in distress, With foods of love and a tidy dress, Goodness shall a day reward, Skies of joy as the flocking birds, And thou a day shalt fete each hour, Dancing gayly beneath sweet showers, Of petals and scents and elixir drops, and milk and honey and clinquant crops, The cosmos shall a day for sure, Accredit thy benevolence; divine and pure. © Dipanjan Bhattacharjee
"BLISS OF SOLITUDE" A moment of escape! Hibernation! Into the wild; a rejuvenation! Beneath the dusk of contemplation, Behold the birds of innovation. Returning to their gemutlich nest, Kissing thru' the ochre breast Of the sky; swaying o'er in zest, They bask within the clouds at rest. Far and wide the open seas, Ruffled by the gushing breeze, Their panorama creates memories, Drenched in rains of the easterlies. Perched on the wings of subtle time, The sun goes down as a mundane rhyme, Flapping birds as a sonorous chime, Makes me savor the dusk sublime. Celebrating the dusk of solitude, Beyond the human multitude, Another world of pulchritude, Reigns the gossamers of longitudes. Faded ranges of ebony peaks, A falcon o'er them flaps and squeaks. Molten hazel on her crimson cheeks, Makes her blush for umpteen weeks. She is a damsel down the lane, She bides beneath the hilly terrain. Her eyes hold agony and disdain, But I want her sublime smile again. And onto the turquoise waves agleam, Molten hazel weaves a dream. Swaying raptors in scarlet beams, Rouse in me few fancy whims. A frothy damozel dwells in me, Waltzing in a delightful spree. Few moments miming a reverie, Amid the solitary dusk of glee.
© Dipanjan Bhattacharjee
"THE LAST BATTLE" Mourn not O! heroes as timids do, 'Tis time that plays and plays for a life, And there in the vale of death thou brew, The essence of life; hung o'er a knife, And as thou fete the moments anew, Mourn not e'er as timids do. There's bare leagues and crimson sands, And all bruised corpses lay at rest. Skies are fumed and so are lands, And ashes moan 'neath brute behest. 'Fraid men heave midst the breathing few, Yet mourn not thou as timids do. The hazel skies whence the shelling rain, Weep with tears too parched in ire. The sun too weeps for the ones in pain, And witness in hush the vengeful fire. But as the cities bid one last adieu, Mourn not dear as timids do. Little weans sans food to eat, Groan in hunger for hours too long. This indeed is a nation's defeat, And a time to sing the final song, Humanity is dead and blue, Yet mourn not man as timids do. A thousand nomads forsake their men, Their corpses lay to decompose. With no promises to return again, They scurry in a quest for a true repose, The bare girl lay; a man's sweet beau, Yet mourn not for her as timids do. A thousand nomads forsake their men, Their corpses lay to decompose. With no promises to return again, They scurry in a quest for a true repose, The bare girl lay; a man's sweet beau, Yet mourn not for her as timids do. Battle more days and days some more, Till each nook is a land of graves. Wafting ghosts thru' towns and shores, Shall fete the nation of promising braves. Thou mustn't rue and all anguish chew, But mourn not e'er as timids do.
© Dipanjan Bhattacharjee
"REMINISCENCE" My wrinkled palm still so close to yours, And for years and years ere from the Baskin Stores, Two lone strangers met as one and for ages one, A journey to reminisce and cherish till the play is done. I breathe in your and cling to your soul, In e'ery perfume drop I smell you whole, I tread o'er moorlands thru' hazel shores, Yet carry the scent that's unfeignedly yours. O ye beloved soul of bliss; lemme bide in you, The ring of diamond emanates bright a sublime tinge of blue. It still I a vehement outcry unleashes bygone hues, And I but reminisce age old tales counting drops of dews. A faintly frozen December morn and a wam sip of love, The gleeful clouds of Christmas Day floats all above. Thither thru' the ivory swathe I behold your face, Still too green in crimson curve showering drops of grace. Few more winters; the sleigh shall rush, And then together a day in hush; The sleigh of dreams must leave the crust, And perch forever in the castle of dust. Eighty miles of roads unveil'd; yet few miles ain't ta'en, Few more miles thru' shores of joy; few roads midst are broken. O to truce must vengeance kneel and plead for a day to laugh, And a day we both must leave with nostrum bows to quaff. © Dipanjan Bhattacharjee
"INCALCITRANT DAMSELS" PRESENT DAY Blow a blow and with the winds they go, Far afar; they scurry in haste! Near the northern bowers they slow, The pink petals are good to taste. And behind the walls of old church tower, When the wallflower bosoms the bower, The wayward lasses halt a while, And tear the petals thru' out the mile.
The night's nearing and nearing dreary,
The ghastly moon seeks one night's slumber. It shines shimmery as a silver fairy, And counts for ideas as a restive ember. Miles beneath; the damsels perverse
Sit together to chaffer. The castle of curse Stands right behind the abandoned tower.
It look'd too grisly midst the midnight hour. The ludic girls perched abuzz o'er the crust, When sudden a silhouette past 'em all. Turned they sides and behind sweating in aghast, A whisper wafted thru' the air; a wolverine's call. Wherefore art they hither tonight? Thought a girl midst the lone midnight, They were four and all alone, Who else shall but hear 'em moan?
The castle stood too dark and shuddery, Yet as a witch it allured 'em in. The four did rise and thru' the shrubbery, Walked inside the world of sin. Ne'er thru' the roads that ran around, The four damsels were seen or found, Their mournful parents wept aloud, From abyssal crust to the floating clouds. © Dipanjan Bhattacharjee
INCALCITRANT DAMSELS PART 2:
1 Week Behind
There were houses o'er the dale, The little river kept streaming thru'. They were firm to storms and gales, And resplendent beneath the blue. Four had lassies; young and coltish, Yet oft hours their acts were doltish. They heard no word of good old omens, And danced all day to chords Beethoven's.
Oft on trees and thickets they play'd, And on sands their arts displayed. On long lean branches they swayed, But to learning; no heed they pay'd. School gates were for them unknown, Ne'er they dreamed of the regal throne. Learning thought they was too tough, And teachers were meant to fool and bluff.
The four were mates and mates for life, Seldom they would play alone. By the brook they're seen too rife, Playing around on rocks and stones. Once upon a morning bright, The four were playing in delight. They saw a man like a mirthful clown, And he looked green in the river town.
He walked down dale to the streaming brook, The four stood fixed with no words. The jocund man to 'em now spoke, How do you do my little birds? Hearing this a girl midst them, Spoke aloud as a smart young dame, Hey! We ain't birds but humans dear, What business do you have in here?
He smiled a while and whispered soft, Do you girls know the castle of clowns? Nay! What's that? We don't hear it oft, Is it a part of our own town? Yes my dear, tis few miles afar, Where the sky holds the bright'st star, Their a church where Mass goes long, And every hour there's a Christmas song.
A week latter when the moon comes round, And midnight smiles with a bright delight. Be right there behind the old church ground, And we shall play for the rest blue night. Let no word from me you heard, Be to your parents foolishly uttered, Else the castle of clowns shall break, And vanish forever like a camphor cake.
Befuddled four for blinks a few, Gazed each other with visages blank. A wild new dream and a place anew, The castle awaits for 'em to crank. Long too days they awaited keen, And for seven days twitchy they've been, And then the night when skies were bright, The four young damsels savoured delight.
Off to the world of deuced walls, Where the castle stood up and dull. The grisly ground with crimson palls, Awaited 'em with a chaplet of pearls. Off they went and ne'er returned, Their subtle corpses as caskets burned, And as cinders on the crust, Their scents still wafted o'er the dust. © Dipanjan Bhattacharjee
For, life is one and worthy a gift, Lose not life on roads not right. The roads that lead to a gruesome rift, Are the ones that run thru' ephemeral delight. Parents are divine paragons on earth, They cause thou bloom in glee and mirth. Ne'er in dreams thou shalt ignore, Their stern command that guides thy core. © Dipanjan Bhattacharjee
I quivered! Quivered for hours, Beneath the black sky; 'neath thick showers. They stood four; the'r hungry pairs of eyes, Devoured my soul. They were in disguise, Black masks o'er faces; shuddery a glance, My heart thumped high; their dire countenance.
O Lord of the skies; I'm but a girl, Ides of teens, skin's like a pearl. A mile or two from the school door, And harsh a blow and then few more. A glimpse hours hence; I saw 'em stand, Twas but swathes of an eldritch land.
I heard 'em speak; whispers a few, They bought me fresh; too pink and blue. Fifty thousand bucks I heard, They unveil'd secrets thru' dull words. Agony kiss'd my brain too deep, And I fell back; into the arms of sleep.
Twas now morn and the sun grinned pale, And I was deadpan o'er a dale. A river sang her tales to me, Her voyage of thrill to the final sea. There a boat came floating by, And stood too still beneath the sky.
The crew in hush hurl'd me a grin, And winked too dire with a crumbl'd skin. They toss'd me hard on the wooden deck, And rushed the boat thru' the brooding lake. Hours forth time and a red old door, And I was solitary on the shore.
A stout old man on a bed of flowers, Drill'd me deep for umpteen hours. The cloth ran red and a feeble moan, And I kept quivering all alone. Twas an inferno of crimson lust, And I kept gasping in aghast.
No holy silhouette to the red old door, Shall e'er come and salve this whore. O gentle souls! O sombre men, This trull still breathes each tinge in pain. And for a fifty thousand pence, They play'd a deal behind the lens.
And I will a day be a brook perhaps, Unveiling tales to those in traps. The wolves of lust still feed on me, And I wonder where lies my sea? Will I e'er as the river of charms; Slumber in bliss in His holy arms? © Dipanjan Bhattacharjee