To the Varanasi of the old

I'd like to lie with you

On starry nights

On ghats so old..that each step talks of a story well told

Where incense of the dead mix with sacrament for the new

To the Varanasi of the lost shall we?

© 2011 Maitreyee Bhattacharjee Chowdhury

( Image courtesy Google)

A slow afternoon breeze

Theres a slight afternoon breeze blowing in the hot summer of the Carnatic, she can see the curtains blue, green and yellow doing their slow erotic dance in the distant yonder..her raven hair spills all over the floor, A red bindi adorns her forehead..splashing past its prime.. and her white bare nothings that cover her modesty bloom in their sweet desire..she s full..full of desire of wanting someone so badly, so madly that she wants to run across the many people..the many boundaries and make that clarion call of come away..and yet as her mist laden eyes turn hither and tither..she knows she won't..she is after all pregnant with the burden of society..the wind mocks at her come away, fly will you? Tell him of your desire...of the longing nights..of the champa by your bedside fueling your want...she picks up the phone and stares at it for long..making love on the phone? but wheres the touch..the maddening touch that seals him to her..the burning skin that proclaims you are mine for whatever time you wish..if only she sighs..there was a day..when she would have him to her ..alone.. fluttering away from the world, from the burden of those who frown..from the paraphernalia called society, family and all...in songs of Jasmine she would decorate him and in the musk of his manliness she would yearn..her hair covering their modesty in the chimes of orgasmic bells..the lord would declare them wed!

© 2011 Maitreyee Bhattacharjee Chowdhury

( Image courtesy Google)

When Mr love came calling..

When Mr love once knocked on these doors

I opened them with creaking hesitancy

To eyes full of wrinkles and skin in shackles

You’ve come a generation late I said

In bespectacled smile of my toothless sing song

Tidy up your hair he said...

Cheer up that frown...

Let me take a look at that face grown so brown

With tenderness of the bud I unfurled

Into arms so soft..and wept in the rhapsody of

Love that came in an age too late...

The flowers had fallen, the leaves all but yellow...

The girl you grew in love and with love..misty eyed & creaking yet

And yet the birds they sing and rainbows they spring too in backyards old..

In eyes that dream of dreamers still

Some dreamers lie but tender still...

© 2011 Maitreyee Bhattacharjee Chowdhury

Submitted to Jingle’s Thursday Rally Week 43:

http://thursdaypoetsrallypoetry.blogspot.com/