Thursday, December 31, 2015

Farewell the fifteenth

The blank page awaits me
With a new cover this time
Awaiting scars on its breasts
And my kisses and spilt wine.
The same pages to be rewritten
Like old wine in a new glass
Tales that ended up in bins before
And lines from papers crushed.
Here goes the last lines of mine
Etched in fifteenth year
The year's been a faithful friend
And the next too be such dear.

©Chandrajit Mitra

Tuesday, December 22, 2015

Confession 3

Now that you're gone
I'll be honest.
You've left words behind
Enough for me to weave
Verses about life;
I won't regret anymore
Not ending up
With pretty women,
But I shall be sad
If I don't make love

With beautiful words.

©Chandrajit Mitra

Monday, December 21, 2015

Curse The Words

At times even poetry makes me sad
Makes me rub my beard
And curse words.

Words are like fairies in heaven
Fairies we chase day long
And in vain.

Being a lazy penner, I'd succumb
To the dust and curse;
Curse the words again.

©Chandrajit Mitra

Tuesday, December 15, 2015

Dating a Poet 2

Rarely,
When a poet and poetess make love
They strip each other down with words,
While verses turn into lashes
And leaves their mark.
They say,
When a poet and poetess make love
Their vulgarity soars high,
They bite each other’s skin off
As the world stands audience.


©Chandrajit Mitra

Monday, December 14, 2015

Short Haired Women

Women with short hair
Seem so rebellious,
They’d dash your brain out
In a second
And fly around with it.
They seem freer
From the tangles of life
As they revolt against
Their own hair.
They won’t have to brush it
For men,
And their lips seem harder
With all those strength saved
From holding back the hair.

©Chandrajit Mitra

Friday, December 11, 2015

কালো মেয়ে



মা, সাদা কালির দাম কি বেশি?
নাকি বারে দাম জুড়লে মাংশপেশি?
আমি তো কাল, তোমারই মত
বাবা তাই ছেড়ে গেছেন বুঝি?
মা, সাদা কালির দাম কি বেশি?
ওরা নাকি দেখতে ভালো,
সাদা রঙে মুখ যোরালো,
আমার মুখও রাঙিয়ে দিতে বলি?
মা, সাদা কালির দাম কি বেশি?
পারার লকে বলে নাকি,
গায়ের রঙ শ্যামলা হলে
মেয়ের বিয়ে থাকবে বাকি।
তুমি বলো - রং তো নিজের,
নিজের রং নিজেই নিয়ে থাকি;
মা, সাদা কালির দাম কি বেশি?

©Chandrajit Mitra

*Translation not available.

Wednesday, December 9, 2015

A Poet's Betrayal

What ails a woman
More than the fact
That his husband
Writes poetry about
Another young lady?
Right when she's asleep
On the same bed
Near the table
Where he pens down
Scars and kisses
A decade old.
He writes about longing
And belonging;
Stranger to her bond.
What ails a woman
More than the words
That betray her more
Than he ever did?




















©Chandrajit Mitra 2015

Tuesday, December 8, 2015

For Chennai

On dark and cloudy days
I would sail off on a kite
And try to catch the stars;
I've sailed across my dreams
And back a hundred times,
Until it rained and washed
The dusty streets one day
With blues from the sky,
While dreams still floated
In the air above Chennai.


©Chandrajit Mitra

Saturday, December 5, 2015

Red Speaks

I’ve been the most mysterious one,
They say they see me as danger.
Women paint me on their lips
While I bleed out of their nerves;
Every one they slit for some men
Who’ve been drunk in their love once.
I bleed out of them in pain,
And adorn their stilettos with pride.


©Chandrajit Mitra

Blind's Red

Red was his favourite;
But hardly he knew how it looked.
“It’s like the sun when it sets,”
His mother would say,
He never watched the sun set.
However he played with the robot
The Big Red Santa’s gift,
And imagined his red in his mind.
All colours looked the same to him;
Yet he would cling on to red.
Red because, his sister was married off
In a red saree, he heard,
And she liked it.
Red because, he heard men bleed red,
And beautiful women redden their lips.


©Chandrajit Mitra

Thursday, December 3, 2015

Confession 2

I’ve written the worst pieces ever
With neither rhythm nor love
But now that you’re gone,
I’ll be honest;
I’ve stolen you from you
From the darkest days
And crafted lines.
That’s the secret, if you ask me.


©Chandrajit Mitra

Tuesday, December 1, 2015

Idea Of Romance #1

Romance would be the bloodstains
On a knife, with the dead;
The lashes on the body
And the unhealed scar.
The love that would grope you
Right inside and behind your masks,
While you both stand clothed;
Afar.

©Chandrajit Mitra

Monday, November 30, 2015

Confession 1

I’d lust upon the words
That cannot describe you,
For they are honest
Than those who claim
You belong to this world.

In a quest to write the best
I’d pull you in every time,
And let the beast inside write;
I’ve never tried to be a good man
Just the words turned out honest.


©Chandrajit Mitra

Wednesday, November 25, 2015

I've been a rose

I've been a rose, gently touching her navel
And slip down to her knee and her feet
And eventually be crushed;
I'd bloom again to start from her lips.
She would enjoy my thorns pricking her
And let every inch fill in the pours on her skin,
Dripping blood reddened me over again
As I smiled back as fresh as a new one.


©Chandrajit Mitra

Friday, November 20, 2015

Pablo, time goes on while you write

Nights when words seem blasphemous
And the wine drips down her cleavage,
Your tongue agonize restlessly
And sing the blues as an ode.
The sky fills up to the brim with wine
And draws the rainbow, while you
Still hallucinate over nothing;
You weep for the stars being afar.
The darker world prefers solitude
The pomp and melody derails you,
Your eyes seem drunk with images;
Pablo, time goes on while you write.

©Chandrajit Mitra

Sunday, November 8, 2015

Nishtha's Diwali Blues

Nishtha, sad;
Sat alone on Diwali night
While listening to her friends
Giggling and dancing in the garden.
Her door was closed while Mojo
Crept under the bed;
She wasn’t alone.
Victims of the previous years
Both wept their miseries to the Goddess,
While listening to the blurred sound
Of the dumb bombs outside;
Through the shut window pane.
Last year the festival of lights,
And fire, and noise, and pain
Left the girl deaf;
Listening to her own woven blues
The scenes she drew from the past.

©Chandrajit Mitra

Wednesday, August 12, 2015

Ode to the two years

A sleepless night, a torn song
She would appear in a dream,
Pour wine on the thirsty soul
And set it on fire.
Seems, a decade has passed
Or years two, or just a day,
And her feet would tap to
The jazz, I admire.

©Chandrajit Mitra

Thursday, July 16, 2015

Smile, Pretty Lady Smile

Smile, pretty lady smile
Like you've never washed
Your cheeks with teardrop.
Smile, pretty lady smile
Like the birds still sing
The same old song.

The evening has never been
So dark, as it is today
The colourful crowd around
Is gone.
The rain has washed you alone
Left you sad deep inside
The smile, my lady
Is gone.

Smile, pretty lady smile
Your eyes are drenched in pain
Smile, pretty lady smile
Come dance with me in the rain.

©Chandrajit Mitra

Monday, June 1, 2015

Man of a thousand miseries

The dim bulb that hung overhead
Sparked and went off
Is it dead? The soul is!
They call him a man of thousand miseries.
Brown coat, not washed, eyes
Burdened with liquid memories.
Is it dead? The soul is!
Days indifferent to him, for the news repeat
Nothing to smile, No one to defeat.
They call him a man of thousand miseries.

He stood by the edge,
Could he hear her voice?
Turned back, to find no one,
Did she smile?
He turned around again
To see the distant floor
He was alive, just to see once, her smile
And they called him a Man of thousand miseries.

He sensed the beep, wished
To be remembered again
And slipped on his way towards eternity,
There went with silence
Man of thousand miseries.



©Chandrajit Mitra