The Statesman reviewed my book today. It feels great to see your pics in newspaper. The writeup is heavily loaded in my favour and I feel somewhat shaky to upload it.  Nevertheless...

Just to share a bit of news. I have been one of the winners of  Aquillrelli Publishing contest, where the organizers were selecting the best 100 poems amongst a host of contributers. Those of you interested in the next publishing contest can click the following link:-

http://www.aquillrelle.com/

And the poem that was chosen by the organizers was:-

http://www.aquillrelle.com/publishingwinners.htm#publishedpoem8

The Final Moorings As the clock embedded inside Swings farther and farther Away from the umbilical chord Time boarding the magic carpet Flies back to my by-gone days.  In search of memoirs. The tired sail with mussels all over Waits to be beached Like other hulks' ramshackle In eternal Time's sand It waits dismantling In the final moorings Away from the beloved's guard In ruthless scrap yard. Strapped firmly upon a cot Lugged upon a sun-fed street The heartless funeral band  Roared, and all trusts breached; I see my head cold, Swaying like a frail boat- In intruding tidal bore, And I collect my deeds Strewn like cheap bran Upon the memory's floor, I marvel at my life's span Oh! so fast it has elapsed Before the fluttering bird Inside me has collapsed.

My mother came back today from the hospital after Laparoscopic Cholecystectomy or removal of gall stones, which she had plenty inside. For last few days she was in the not at home. What I want to share below is my poem that I wrote for her in the Mothers Day last year. The poem also finds a place in my book:-

 Oh! Mummy

Riding flippant wings of Time

As I flew three decades back

My world around was engulfed

Into the single-soldier barrack.

Under a general draped in a sari

And a vermillion bindi between brows

With beads of sweat from daily chores

She wipes her face in anchal* free.

This act often rejuvenates

Her sweaty glowing visage

In the slogging sultry summer

And injects love-blended  reverence.

Over the growing years-

The bridled bonds has slacked

The general has became a friend

Look! the octopus tires.

Mistake! She deliberately let it loose

The anchor grip in doorstep of youth

Not before steadying the sail

And refurbishing the keel.

"Let the waves thrash you dear

Let your soul burn wrath of fear

But when you will be back to me

Come back as a man.

Baked in sun, whipped by wind

Be the stick of my porous bones

Be back as light of my misty eye

Through your window my world beckons.

When my stones inside will hurt

When dark blood ooze from my orifice

Then be by my side dear

And let me rest in peace."

(*Anchal is one end of an Indian sari, that dangles at the back over the shoulder)

After a long wait these poems got a place to rest between a khadi clad, hand made, hand pasted, gold- embossed covers. Yes my second book has come out from Writer's Workshop, Kolkata. One of the last manuscripts selected by Prof. P Lal before he passed away on 3rd Nov, 2010.

Any one interested in acquiring a copy can have it from " Book Nook" at 165/92,Lake gardens, Kolkata, or can send a written request over email at : < chakrabarty.amitava@gmail.com>. A VPP will be sent forthwith and the postage will be borne by me if the addressee is in India. The book is priced at Rs.120/-.

A phone

Well the wounded soul sought fresh air in the nearby park, where a few lovers met. There were fixed benches for them to sit, fixed positions for their hands and fixed angle of their besotted looks. Once in mid winter there were no lovers as it was raining. The wounded soul saw the beleaguered benches craving for the warmth of the soul mates and wrote the following:

We Two of Us

We two of us in the wood

In wind swept winter’s pensive mood

Craving warmth we lie unhidden,

We long for moments forbidden

For loves that winter’s chill withstood.

We two are benches made of wood,

Once with pride in the park we stood,

Today we are left, forsaken-

We two of us.

In this winter, we cry aloud;

Oh! Sweet spring hail the lovers-good;

Let them sit on our warm wooden

Lap; let’s attend to their desires then,

Ensconced in nature, far from crowd-

We two of us.

(A rondeaux )

WOUNDS

After the famous touch the ebb started in my life and exposed a wound on the sea shore that still exists, forcing me to write this poem :

Wound

Those loving touches on me you left

Are wounds that doesn’t heal,

And all the bliss I ever dreamt-

Haunt my senses still.

Two loving palms that lifted my soul

And shared the warmth of heart

Is thrown today where cannibals prowl,

To be ripped and torn apart.

Today I languish in the woods -

Loving the birds and bees,

But still today those mortal wounds

Intermittently bleed.