Hi!
I recently moved to Pune and organised my first poetry event here. Here’s a clip of how the event went. Hope you guys enjoy! 🙂
Love,
Antara
The Presence of an M
Light had a way of finding him.
The tree shadows from the glow of
The lamp on the other side of the street,
The oversleeping sun laying rectangular
Bloated lines on his back.
Eyes reflecting the image of a girl
Gently tucked in beneath
A room full of sleep.
The red shirt formed patterns of
Comfort on the floor beside the bed.
Three petals of bougainvillea
Twelve hours hence, noticed
The change of humming
Daily routine. Tic-tac-toe
Of fingerprints.
Published
Guess what I woke up to?
…
Love,
Antara
P.S.- It would be wonderful if you would buy/read their February issue featuring love poems – which also has my ‘To my Long Distance Lover’. Thanks a bunch ❤
Mem
Someone turned on a tap.
Red dipped scars
Followed like ants on line
On translucent window panes.
The night of the fight I
Sat quietly under the bed
As Mem poured kerosene on the chair
On the red pashmina she bought
Recently, and lastly on herself
Taking time to dip each strand of hair
As if buttering a chicken before it
makes it to the plate.
“Mem, don’t.”
She looked at me and
Smiled her dry quarter smile;
Skin lifted just at the edge.
Her eyes gave nothing away
Just a black abyss with memories
Gliding in a whirl.
“Someone turned on a tap, Mam. I
Can hear it drip.”
It’s scarring when a word brings back
Years of dusty boxed-up nightmares
And faces you at one go.
Five accusations in one night;
You are going for a ride.
“Don’t Mem.” Mem, don’t.
Swimming in a Pool
When I’m writing about Kolkata, it’s difficult. Because I’m writing in English but the dialogues, the lines, the words come to me in Bangla. It’s different when I write a story in an English setting (or maybe even base it in other parts of India). Then automatically the thoughts are in English. But, where Kolkata is concerned, it is as if I’m simply sieving and translating. Two worlds on different sides of the wall. And that feels wrong. Very very wrong. That is the point where I feel helpless. I know my bangla isn’t strong enough such that I can write a novel in it. And English is what I’m best at. Kolkata is also what I know the best. Hence, it fits to be the setting of my novel. But it is frustrating when after writing two or three pages, I’m staring at the screen, not knowing where the story is going. Because god help me, but how can I expect a Nimai Kaka to address his Memsahib in fluent English. It just sounds so very wrong. At this point I’m extremely close to giving up. And I have, before. On more than a dozen stories I think.
I hate swimming in this frustration pool.
Seventy-six Minutes
What she looked for in every boy she encountered was a conversation. A proper soul-enriching conversation. Because she felt lonely otherwise. She sat at the cream-coloured table in class as her mind riveted back to the boy she smoked up with last week. He had big hands. They sat at the end of the rusted knocked down bridge and spoke of things people usually don’t speak about on their first dates. The bridge had several planks missing. Boltu, the university dog sat in the middle of it, resting under the afterglow of the evening sun. Their legs brushed against one another. Neither pulled away. He spoke of life in Rajasthan. How he didn’t get along with his Ma. It saddened her, but she didn’t let go of his hand.
“I need a smoke.”, she pulled away.
Keep your hands away
In the clouds deep – where they belong
Umm, up –
Seventy-six minutes
In the noontime of my eyes
Numb lover, come, sit,
Gaze into the pensive.
I wish I put a lid on them
Good memories
Of moments spent in longing
Love and laughter
Drizzle over the semi-parched skin.
Flakes of handheld kisses waver in the air, as if snow –
I wish I put a lid on them.
Small fingers gnaw at wooden letters
Halting at a stamp of yesterday.
A cuppa of quiet nights
A cuppa of quiet nights
On university floors.
Paper flags fluttering
Over your eyes
You see the white sky
With the crisscrossed
Wires of broken bonds.
Ash adorned jhil-pars
With their empty tar-sodden
Pockets, stare –
A face looks back at you
As deep as the tree beside.
Reassuring eyes.
Documenting 1.4: ‘Stuck’ by Antara Chakraborty
The first time I performed ‘Stuck’ was at Papercup’s Poetry Slam held at The Chaiwala. A bit more confident than my first time, here goes my attempt to document it again in my room… Hope you guys like it. Thanks.
Love,
Antara
From my window seat
Of all the countless stars I see
And the dim lights across the field
And the stations carelessly passed
I finally breathe.
When you’re rushing, rushing
against time
And then you look up at the sky
Of all the countless stars you see
One shines bright.
Across the moors there is a frail
road; a lone bike stands by
Staring at the passing train
The calves graze on
Unperturbed, .
A dim lantern keeps its stand
Protector of the muddy homes
Kingdom under thatched roofs –
Of all the darkness that I see
I see you, if I close my eyes.
Sleepless night of sleepy eyes
Herb and water sits by my side.
The train halts as dawn
Creeps in.
I order two butter omelette fries.
Only This And Nothing More 