Author: Nandita Banerjee

For the nth time

my reflection has not changed—

eyes still shine,

complexion’s a trifle sallow

my smile fixes it—

it’s all birdsong, all sunshine

in the bureau mirror.

Why he turns away—

that strange expression

when I try to meet his gaze?

Where is his stark admiration—

his raw honesty—

when every inch of him 

screamed, “You are ravishing?”

Repulsed by my imperfections?

He said we had a deep connection—

fire in my eyes turned him on.

Has that flame burned out? 

Or has his love slowly died? 

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Puppy loves his walks,

The outdoors is incredible fun,

with so much to explore,

and miles to run.

Yet when it’s time for his walk,

he is bound to play up—

hide under the bed,

or in the bathtub,

and there wait to be grabbed,

buckled, and strapped,

then led out the door,

a grinning pup.

So quick he finds sticks he can chew.

He stops to nip at an abandoned shoe,

then drops it to whine at a spirited dog

or in favor of a smelly frog—

dead and half buried under a log.

But his enthusiasm is known to wane

as he nears his street—

nearer still,

he slumps down on the concrete,

and adoringly his eyes implore,

‘Twas too little—

Couldn’t we walk some more?

Your dog’s your therapist—

The specialist

Who can heal dejection

With sheer devotion,

And with an excess supply of

Warmth and affection

In his repertoire,

What more could you be looking for?

Your therapist is adept at improvising,

Making up for anything that’s lacking

By sniffing you, and licking you,

And covering you in slobber,

Soft eyeing you, and nuzzling you

And snuggling up closer.

In no time, he identifies your malady

And guarantees you a remedy,

And all it costs is love.

The soul,

The real ‘me’ –the ‘I,’

You sometimes catch capering in the eye,

Never dies–

It just flies

Its vessel

When conditions are insufferable,

And no other options are available.

The family grieves; death is tough.

Does the soul yearn its lost love?

Can it remember its way back?

Alas, it is in another realm,

Populated by other women, other men.

It learns to thrive among them,

And slowly its attachments die away

And fade in the rigmarole of common day.

It is that day again,

When I set a special bouquet

Before the frame,

Light a candle,

Guide its flame

To his face–

Watch love glimmer

In those eyes—love

That nothing can efface.

Memories tread in

Like some howling wind

Into that emptiness within

I could never fill—

They wring my heart, crush my soul.

I cannot cajole

A solitary smile for him.

All those years

Of bottled-up emotions

Rush out at once in blinding tears.

In the hush,

The window rattles,

Upon the mantle the candle crackles,

It’s flickering flame flares and sparkles.

A sudden draft? It catches my hair,

Its whistle rents the air—and then

The door creaks open and closes again.

Success is admirable,

Heroes are great,

But greatness

Does not come to all

The exact same way.

Some are born

Under the right stars,

They soar—they achieve

Without striving that hard.

Not everyone’s as lucky

Some just get stuck,

Every time they rise

They just fall back.

Nevertheless,

They don’t give up.

They try again–

Composed and sane.

It’s something in their brain

That wants them to fight it out,

And give what it takes,

To turn their failure

Into a story of success.

Is there a virtue greater than resilience?

The painted dragon sits in the foyer,

He breathes no fire—

His eyes are blue sapphire,

Shinning, clear.

His grin stretches from ear to ear.

His scales are pretty, full of color.

His creator called him Summer.

He said,

“Not all dragons are evil—

Not all serpents are the devil.”