By Lopa Banerjee
The Drunken Lovers’ Song
For all those short wintry days, sheathed under
The soft blanket of the setting sun, they met,
Under the misty halo of twilight.
Their hands clasped, their tongues tied
Under the spell of the faint, blinking rays
Of the hibernated sun,
Zipped by the pale, urgent moonlight.
They met, they wandered, withered with the moon,
In their own planet, love, the only language of the living.
The sky, a euphoria of lofty colors
Threw sparks upon their faces.
They looked up, and down,
Coiled in each other’s faces, sitting
Rapt beside a drunken, luscious river,
Counting baby faces in the translucent water bodies.
The faces, playful, indolent, unbound, never knowing
The toxins, foul smells, the ground zero of the city.
They laugh, rolling, rippling, flowing,
Tiny petals of music, poetry and love,
Fingers kissing dewdrops, evolving
Into a saga of childhood love,
Twinkling dim, blinking out, withering away.
In a tangle of two souls, spread out
Like a flowered skirt, the drunken lovers
Surrendered their lavender blossoms.
The stale night whispered, venom sprung
Out of the earth’s crust.
And while the green pastures waxed and waned
With the pale, cold moon,
Deadly ghosts spitting misery, trampled over
Their flesh, bones and honeyed dreams.
The drunken lovers and the moon, consumed in embrace
Quivered, fluttered wings beneath the deadening cacophony.
The river called them out in ripples
And the unwavering smell of love.
And they gripped, grouched in the dark planet,
Love, the only language of the living.
When Memories Rain
I don’t know when the rains started to bleed.
A taste of salty pining, a dash of
Peppered moments and memories, dancing together
Their bodies, clasped, loosening, melting, blurring.
I don’t know when my clay hands composed you,
Mold after mold, structure, shape, dimension
Nestled in the embrace of these coiled fingers,
Your cinnamon breath, blowing its fragments,
Mingling with my own, tearing me open,
The gash of my wounds, alive, and trembling still.
I don’t know when the smell of long lost love
Stark dead, ghost-white, wafts along
The interstate where the night reveals
And sea winds soar and sing, the smell
Of burnt lips entwined, slicing through
The raging night, earnest, shadowy, whispering.
I don’t know when the downpour stopped,
The blood, the tears, the salt tickling me,
Pulling me within, deeper still,
My crust and core, rising, floating
In the debris of the days, lost.
Painting: Gustav Klimt, ‘The Kiss’
Lopa Banerjee is an author, poet and freelance writer based in Nebraska, US. She has a Masters’ in English with a thesis in Creative Nonfiction from the University of Nebraska at Omaha. Her unpublished memoir ‘Thwarted Escape’ has been First Place Category Winner at the Journey Awards 2014 hosted by Chanticleer Reviews. Her poetry, stories and essays have appeared at ‘Words, Pauses, Noises’, the creative writers’ blog of Kingston University, UK, ‘Café Dissensus’, ‘eFiction India’, ‘Earthen Lamp Journal’, ‘Camel Saloon’ (special anthology published on International Women’s Day), ‘About Place Journal’, ‘Spark Magazine’, ‘Northeast Review’, ‘Indian Review’, ‘River Poets’ Journal’. She has also been a recipient of the critic award and ‘Poem of the Month’ award at Destiny Poets International Community of Poets, UK. She tweets at:@rooafza
Cafe Dissensus Everyday is the blog of Cafe Dissensus magazine, based in New York City, USA. All materials on the site are protected under Creative Commons License.
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